


Worlds Apart (and they still end up together)

by sabby1



Category: The OC
Genre: F/M, Family Drama, Happy Ending, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabby1/pseuds/sabby1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some relationships stay with you, even when you try your best to move on. If it's meant to be, it's going to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Visions

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story in June of 2009. It took 7 years to finish it, but here it is. Originally, I had planned the time frame of this fiction to fill the years covered by the five minute montage at the end of the series finale and for Ryan and Taylor not to end up together until shortly before Seth and Summers wedding. Apparently, Ryan and Taylor had other plans, so here it is: Worlds Apart (and they still end up together)

Ryan dragged his feet as he entered his apartment and slumped against the door, closing it behind him. He tossed his keys on the little end table - a gift from Kirsten she had found at a flea market - and trotted towards the kitchenette. 

His hands went straight to the creaky cabinet above the sink to get a bowl and some much needed cereal. He hadn’t had time for breakfast this morning because he’d already been running late for his course on Architectural Design, and the professor was a first class dick about every little thing like occasional tardiness or spacing out in class. 

Ryan took the extra minute to actually pour milk over the cereal before he shoveled the first crunchy spoonful into his mouth. God, he missed having decent food around. Not that he couldn’t cook or didn’t know how to fend for himself, but it wasn’t the same as having Kirsten slide a plate across the table towards him with her latest attempt at do it yourself cooking and her hopeful gaze as he took the first bite. 

As Ryan set down the empty bowl in the sink and put the milk carton back in the fridge, his gaze passed over the calendar stuck to the flaky white surface. He smirked at Kirsten’s handwriting in next Sunday’s box, the date circled twice for good measure. He wouldn’t have to wait long for a real meal. 

Life at Berkeley had treated him well, occasional hiccups aside. His first semester had been crammed with course work and he hadn’t had time to think of anything, or anyone, because he had been too busy. His focus had been sucked up completely by trying to pass five courses and figuring out a way to live with his insane roommate without beating him into a bloody pulp every time the guy opened his mouth and started to ramble about pseudo religious conspiracy theories; the Da Vinci code, indeed.

By the time freshman year was over, Ryan had been ready to get the hell out and move into his own place. He’d found a job at a pizza place, cut back a little on the amount of classes he took, and had found himself a cheap place to live that wasn’t too far away from campus. 

When he’d first brought up the idea, Sandy and Kirsten had offered him to move back into their place, but it didn’t feel right. They had a baby to take care of, and he was more than old enough to make it on his own. So he’d declined and rented this place. 

Sure, the apartment was nothing to write home about. When his adoptive parents had first visited, their reactions couldn’t have been more diverse or more characteristic. Kirsten had opened her mouth in shock then closed it and just given him a very worried look. No doubt, she had been swallowing the instinctive urge to tell him to pack his stuff and come home, right now. 

Sandy had clapped him on the shoulder, bursting with pride, and grinned the trade mark Cohen grin. He’d congratulated Ryan on his first place and joked dryly that he’d come by during the week with a few bombs and cans of Raid to get rid of the unwanted subtenants. No doubt, Sandy had had some worries of his own, but he had kept them to himself to be supportive. 

They had gotten rid of the roaches, but that didn’t change the overall decrepit character of the studio apartment. The walls were dirt-gray and chipped in too many places. The windows weren’t really sealed and let in a lousy draft. Ryan had to make do with a futon, because there wasn’t enough space for both a bed and a couch and he needed room for his heavy bag more than he needed a coffee table, so he made do with the small side table on wheels. 

Kirsten had insisted on a real desk, so that had been shoved into the corner right under one of the three drafty windows. Sandy had insisted on the flat screen TV, which was mounted on the wall across from the futon, and the DVD player and Playstation3 in the long, narrow bookshelf underneath. Aside from those and a few games, the bookshelf was empty; Ryan had never been big on reading for pleasure. It wasn’t much, but it was home. For now. 

Ryan ambled into the bathroom and dropped his clothes in the hamper. He had to take a shower before work; after, he would be too dead to care. Stepping into the small cabin, he didn’t bother to pull the plastic sliding door closed. The last time he had tried that, it had gotten stuck and he’d had to squeeze himself through a six inch crack to get out. That was not an experience he cared to repeat. 

He went through his pre-work routine with a mostly blank mind: taking a shower, getting dressed - white briefs, black shirt, black pants, black shoes - grabbing his keys, and double-checking the lock on his way out the door. 

Work was always the same. He worked the evening shift three days a week and the early shift every other Saturday to make enough money that he didn’t need to completely depend on the Cohens. He felt bad enough about taking what he took, but it was necessary. His scholarship only paid for tuition, which left a lot for him to cover. 

The crowd in Berkeley showed a bit more variety than the people in Newport, but the standard groups were still represented: the rich housewives, the cheating husbands, the Abercrombie and Fitch kids, all of which made for tons of overheard gossip and great tips. He wasn’t “that kid from Chino” anymore, but he hadn’t moved up by much. If moving up meant becoming like them, he didn’t think he ever wanted to. 

All in all, without the drama of Orange County, his life had become stable, even if it was a bit solitary with Seth on the other side of the country and Summer traveling around the globe to save it. Ryan couldn’t complain, though, because he liked it that way. 

~~

Sunday was here and Ryan got ready to drive over to Sandy and Kirsten’s place. The Sunday dinners were something that Kirsten had insisted on after his first semester. Despite the fact that she had her hands full with Sophie and that Sandy had found a new job, teaching undergraduate law students, she had noticed that Ryan had started to turn into a hermit. She had decided that wouldn’t do and he should come over for dinner. One dinner had turned into two and from then on it was declared a new Cohen tradition by Sandy, which pretty much sealed the deal. 

Ryan smirked to himself as he turned into the parking lot of Andronico’s Market, remembering the day Kirsten had surprised him in his apartment to arrange that first dinner. She hadn’t been able to nail him down on the phone, so she had stridden into his place armed with a calendar, some colorful magnets, and a big red marker. She hadn't left until the calendar had been mounted on the fridge with the next Sunday marked ‘family dinner’ in her curly script, circled twice for good measure. 

Ryan walked through the aisles more or less aimlessly, headed for the aisle with the alcoholic beverages. He still felt a little weird about bringing wine into the house - Kirsten had been dry for almost two years now - but both his adoptive parents insisted it was fine. He still always remembered to bring a bottle of imported water, or some non-alcoholic fruit juice to make him feel better. 

He rounded the corner around the snack section, sparing a passing glance at two girls debating the choice between Twinkies and Ho Hos. Ryan rolled his eyes at that. Really, the only difference was chocolate versus no chocolate.

One of the girls giggled. “But that makes all the difference in the world, silly!” 

Ryan froze. His heart started pounding. He stared blindly at the selection of carb-free cake in front of him. He didn’t dare to turn around. The amused, musical voice had sounded like… He turned around slowly, afraid to draw attention to himself, so he could get a closer look. After sneaking up to the corner of the aisle, he peered around the shelves at the two girls. 

The girl on the left had long, auburn hair and wore a red sundress that ended just below mid thigh, revealing a pair of shapely legs that ended in black strap sandals. Her friend next to her was a little shorter with dark brown hair piled up in a messy bun on her head. She wore low riding jeans and a white peasant blouse. 

This was a flashback. He had never really done crack, or acid, but what could it be other than a really bad flashback episode that was hitting him right between the eyes and making him sweat bullets as he hid ineffectively behind a stack of fucking baking products?

The red-head turned halfway and jammed one hand onto her hip as she argued with the brunette. The spell was broken. Her nose was too long and her lips too thin. She didn’t have the same oval face or slightly pointed chin. In fact, she really looked nothing like… her.

Ryan shook it off and expelled a loud breath before he turned his back on them and continued his shopping. He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans, and if they were shaking a little, he didn’t notice. He grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir, cranberry juice, and a key lime pie for dessert, paid for it at the express lane, and got the hell out of Dodge. 

~~

“Hey,” Kirsten greeted him as she wrapped her arms around him in a motherly hug. “You’re right on time. Dinner’s just about ready.” 

“Hey.” He returned the greeting, patting her awkwardly on the back. 

Kirsten pulled back and looked at him more closely, brows furrowed in obvious concern. 

“Are you okay?”

Sometimes, he hated that uncanny radar she had for his moods. But he supposed it was his fault. If he talked about his problems all day long like Seth, she wouldn’t have had to develop that radar in the first place. He made a non-committal noise and waved his hand.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Mom radar 2, Ryan silence 0. 

“No, it’s nothing.” He reassured her quickly, ducking out of her gaze and heading for the kitchen. “Just a little tired. I brought the wine you said would go with the duck.”

He heard the front door close behind him and hoped that Kirsten would drop the issue. He had no desire to talk about it. 

“Who’s trying to walk off with the duck?” Sandy entered the room with a customary bad joke. 

Ryan would have smiled, but the joke wasn’t bad enough, and he was still pretty shaken up from his flashback at the grocery store. 

“No one. I brought wine.” 

And he would love to use it to drink himself into a coma, but that would have to wait until he got back to his own apartment after dinner. Sandy took the bottle from his hand and pulled him into a one-armed hug as he inspected it. 

“Ah, well done, kid. This will help if the bird is as dry as last time.” 

“Hey, watch it, mister. Or you can cook next time.” 

Kirsten followed them into the kitchen and shot her husband a challenging look. Sandy raised his hands in supplication. 

“Hey, no harm, no fowl.” He grinned cheekily and waggled his impressive eyebrows. 

That was bad enough to get a chuckle. Ryan relaxed as he settled down at the kitchen table and let the atmosphere of home wash over him as Sandy opened the wine and Kirsten pulled the key lime pie out of the bag Ryan had placed on the counter.

“Oh, you brought dessert too? I forgot to tell you, I made my own this time.” 

Ryan shrugged. Nothing unhealthy that tasted good would ever go to waste in this house. 

“Peach torte.” Kirsten smiled as she pulled the pastry out of the oven and presented it. 

Ryan’s face froze and he lost all appetite. The two simple words felt like a sucker punch to the gut that sent him spinning back in time where he landed on his old bed in the pool house, looking up into a pair of luminous hazel eyes.

She uncovered the plate in her hand with a flourish and started babbling before he had the chance to get a word in edgewise. She told him how her ex-husband made her take a cooking class and how she’d failed everything except tortes. 

He tried to get rid of her, because he was tired and looking forward to a night of insomnia, but she was not to be deterred. She offered him lunch, and dinner, and if he didn’t stop her now, she would probably keep rambling until breakfast the next morning. So he accepted dessert. 

She looked surprised and happy. He was just resigned to choke down a few bites to make her leave him alone. He barely got the fork into his mouth before she started going off again; he uttered some non-committal noises. 

When he told her the torte was great, she smiled the most brilliant smile, and he found that he couldn’t look at her. She was so bright. She was too bright for a guy like him. 

“Ryan?” Kirsten sounded worried. “Ryan.” She drew his name out into two long syllables.

He snapped back to reality with Kirsten’s hand on his forearm, looking up into the eyes of a concerned mom.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” She sounded like she was about a second away from prying the truth out of him with a full blown interrogation.

“Huh?” He tried to play dumb, but that never worked all that well with this family.

“You looked petrified. And you haven't even tried it yet.” Sandy grinned cheekily, but his brows were furrowed under a calculating look. 

“I’m fine.” Ryan shook his head and waved off their concern with an uneasy chuckle. “Really, just not enough sleep and too much cramming.”

They reluctantly accepted his explanation and let it go at that. Ryan changed the subject.

“So, how’s Sophie?” 

It was easier to sit back and let the two fill him in on the progress of their ‘baby girl’ than to try and cope with the fact that he’d had a second flashback in less than two hours. Ryan willed himself to concentrate on reality: the food on his plate, the wine in his glass, the two people sitting across from him talking amicably and sharing their life with him. He stoically ignored the peach torte sitting on the counter less than six feet away.

~~

Ryan hurried to get through the door and slammed it shut behind him, turning the normal lock, throwing the bolt lock, and pushing the sliding lock into its cage before he expelled an explosive breath. On the way home, he’d had another flashback. He’d been coasting through the streets, listening to the radio, and going through the stuff he had to prepare for tomorrow’s classes when it had happened. 

Waiting to Die by Zero 7 was playing. He was standing at the bar, suffering through yet another Newport benefit dinner and wishing he was anywhere else. Until she showed up. Red strapped sandals made her long legs look even longer, and the layered skirt flowed with her movements. Mouthwatering cleavage was framed by ruffles on a neck holder that managed to seduce despite the fact that all the essential bits were covered. She smiled at him, and for a moment he forgot to breathe because who would believe that the girl with the pleated skirts and high necked blouses could be sexy as hell? 

“Nice” was the most unfit word to describe what she looked like in that dress. But none of the words that would fit were suitable for a public audience. Even when she started to babble, it didn’t ruin the picture. And when she turned around, his pants tightened at the view. 

Dancing with her was pure torture. He tried to keep her at arms’ length to stop her from noticing what was going on and made some lame joke when she brought up the fact that nobody had liked her in high school. 

The blare of a car horn had ripped him out of the flashback. Ryan was lucky he hadn’t crashed into a streetlamp, or a tree, or another car. He had violently pushed the button to turn off the radio and rolled the window down to let in some air. The rest of the drive home, his hands had been sweating and shaking around the wheel, and he had forced himself not to think about anything but the road in front of him.

Did three subsequent flashbacks qualify as a haunting? Because that was the only explanation he could think of; that, or he was officially insane. But wasn’t it more plausible that six thousand miles away, she had taken a step up from stalking and crossed the boundary to using voodoo? It was more than a possibility; in fact, it was a probability. If she could pretend to be a sleep therapist and hire a homosexual to play her boyfriend, she sure as hell was capable of paying a voodoo priest to curse him. 

Ryan collapsed on the futon and wiped a clammy hand over his face, trying to push those thoughts away. He was not going insane. It was just the girl in the grocery store, and the peach torte, and a song on the radio that he hadn’t heard in years. All in the span of a couple hours. Alright, so he was losing it. The best way to get rid of this was to keep going as if everything was normal, and eventually those flashbacks would go away. 

He peeked through his fingers at the closet. For a second he was tempted to stalk over to it, rip open the doors, and confront his demons. Maybe if he confronted the memories head on, he could purge them and stop those damn flashbacks before they could really do any harm. 

No. Not tonight. He growled under his breath and closed his eyes. His hand fumbled for the remote control that always ended up in the crack of the damn futon. He switched on the TV. Distraction was key.


	2. The Box

When he woke up the next day, he wished he was dead. He had slept barely three hours, haunted by dreams of things that had happened and things that would never happen. Ryan cracked his neck and stomped from the futon into the bathroom. When he was done, he stormed back out and straight to the closet. He jerked the folding door open and ripped out the closest pair of jeans, a wife-beater, and a blue shirt. When he tried to slam the door closed, something jammed it. He gave the obstruction a swift kick. Something rattled and his gaze jerked down, only to turn into a dumbstruck, wide-eyed stare. 

Of course it was there. He had put it there himself when he'd moved in. He hadn’t touched the damn thing once after he’d dumped it on the floor of the closet. Now he was staring at the damned box as if he’d never seen it before. He was almost terrified to get closer to it. Ryan Atwood, terrified. That didn’t happen often and he cursed himself for being such a chickenshit. It was just a box. There was nothing to be afraid of in there, only memories of Newport that he’d left behind once he’d made the move to Berkeley and started a new life. It was just a box. 

Ryan jerked out of his daze and quickly closed the closet door. He had to get to class. Environmental Design started in less than thirty minutes, and after that he had to go clear across campus for International Studies. He didn’t have time for this. And of course he was scheduled to work today, too.

~~

He stormed back into his apartment five hours later and nearly ripped the buttons from his shirt in his haste to take it off. Going straight for the heavy bag, he didn’t even think about wrapping his knuckles before he pulled back and punched it hard. 

“Fucking International Studies.” 

He snarled under his breath and dealt another jab to the bag. 

“Fucking Europe.” 

He gritted his teeth and grabbed the bag with his right, punching it hard with his left. 

“Fucking France!” 

If that damn course wasn’t a requirement for his A.B., he would have dropped out of it five minutes after the lesson started today. It could have been a normal day, just routine, nothing spectacular. Nothing to see here people, move right along. But instead the professor had to have the brilliant idea to make this week's class all about France. 

Ryan's fists kept mechanically pounding the bag as he cursed under his breath. His nostrils flared as he moved in quick, hard jerks, launching one punch after the other. He was so absorbed into throwing punches he didn’t even hear the phone ring, or the answering machine click on, until he heard Seth’s voice echo thinly through the studio.

“Hello, Ryan’s answering machine. This is Seth. The intelligent, ironic guy who now resides on the East Coast and is missing a rerun of The Valley just to talk to you. Because your owner is apparently not home, or not in the mood to talk to me, or he has been abducted by aliens and…”

Ryan snorted and ripped the phone from the station, effectively stopping Seth’s rambling. 

“Seth.” 

“Ryan!” Seth sounded genuinely surprised and happy to hear him. “How is my prodigal brother?” 

“Fine.” He wiped the sweat from his nose and stalked over to the kitchenette. “How’s RISD?” 

Ryan didn’t really feel like talking, but Seth had a habit to go on and on if there was nothing but the patience of the answering machine tape to listen to him. 

“It’s great. In fact, it’s more than great, it’s awesome. I know I’ve been saying that for over a year now, but that does not lessen the scope of its awesomeness.” 

“Uh huh. Glad to hear it.” 

Ryan couldn’t help but smirk at the exuberance in Seth's voice. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and settled back on the futon. 

“Listen, I just called to see how you’re doing and to get an update from the West Coast.” Seth actually paused a second in his monologue.

Ryan decided to wait it out.

“Um, are you okay?” Seth sounded concerned.

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” 

Ryan grimaced at his hurried response. Would Kirsten actually call Seth to tell him about that stupid moment at dinner? 

“No particular reason, except that you’re breathing into the phone like a raging bull, or a perverted stalker, whichever visual helps you imagine better what you sound like from my end of the line.” 

Ryan swallowed. He waited for the flashback at the word stalker. The memory was there, right at the edge of his brain, waiting to play out. But nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Okay, now you’re freaking me out. Heavy breathing and sighing? Is there someone with you? A girl? Are you doing stuff with a girl while I’m on the phone, 'cause that would be massively traumatizing and… On second thought, I don’t wanna know. If there’s a girl and you’re doing stuff that I don’t want to know, just hang up and call me back when you’re done.” 

“Seth.” Ryan's tone conveyed all the exasperation and annoyance he felt towards his brother’s left field assumption. 

“Ryan?” 

“There is no girl. I was working the bag when you called.” 

There hadn’t been a girl in quite a while, and even if there was, he would never have answered the phone in the situation that Seth had just pictured. 

“Okay, good. Or not good, depending on why you were working it. You’re not training to punch some guy’s face in because he threatened your architectural skills, are you?”

“No.” 

“That’s good then. So…” 

Ryan waited patiently, brows raised, and took a drink from his bottle. Seth dragged out the pause longer than usual for him. 

“Summer’s in Europe right now.” 

There was no way to guess where the statement had come from and even less of a chance to predict where it was going. Ryan took another sip and leaned back in the futon. 

“Ah.”

“Well, she just got done in London so now she’s in Paris.”

“Hm.”

“I just thought you'd want to know. She'swithTayloranditlookslikeshe'sgettingmarriedagain." 

Ryan blinked. Then he parsed through the rushed string of words Seth had delivered and tried to make sense of them. 

“What?”

Seth whistled a breath through his teeth. “Summer’s with Taylor.” 

Ryan had gotten through that part on his own. It was the latter part of the garbled nonsense that he hadn’t heard right.

“And she’s getting married again.” 

He had heard right. 

“Oh.”

She was still in Paris. And Summer was with her. And she was getting married again. She was in Paris and getting married to another Frenchman again. 

“Ryan?”

Ryan blinked furiously. His hands clenched into fists as his brain tried to come back from the short circuit it had just experienced. 

“Fuck!” 

He’d spilled water all over his hand and the futon. And his pants were a mess, too. 

“I know man, look. I’m sorry. I know you said you didn’t want to know, but…” 

“Not you.”

Ryan growled as he jumped up from the futon and hurried to get some paper towels.

“Oh, good. Not me. Listen, I know it’s harsh, but…”

“Shut up, Seth.” 

He had to take care of this mess first. He really couldn’t deal with this conversation right now. Knowing it was bad and that it would probably bring his whole family down on him, Ryan hung up the phone and tossed it into the nearest corner. He grabbed the roll of paper towels and stalked back over to the futon to wad up the lake he’d created. 

It was just typical. Of course on a day like today, everything would go wrong. He got up too late for a real breakfast, suffered through the most boring parts of Environmental Design, nearly lost it in International Studies because the damn professor wouldn’t shut up about France, and Taylor was getting married, again, to a Frenchman, again. He couldn’t deal with this. He just didn’t have the energy to deal with this. His eyes roamed erratically over the futon, and himself, and his wet pants, wet shirt, wet arm, wet watch. And he was late for work. 

“Fucking A!” 

~~

The door closed behind him with a soft click. Ryan sunk against the worn wood and banged his head back on it a couple times to get the droning in his ears to stop. Work had been hell. He hadn’t been fired, but only because his boss had a real soft spot for him because he reminded her of her youngest son. And she'd had no qualms about letting him know that this afternoon. 

He looked at his watch. It was close to midnight. He was glad that his first class tomorrow didn’t start until 11 am. Ryan dragged himself to the fridge to get a soda then went back to the futon and collapsed face first. This day had officially kicked his ass. He was too beat to even turn on the TV and watch old sitcoms on Nick at Night. He should at least make an attempt at getting out of his clothes, though.

With a deep sigh, he hauled himself off the mattress and stumbled over to the closet to get a change of underwear. He slid the door open slowly and grabbed along the shelves for what he needed. His head drooped forward in exhaustion. His eyes landed on the damn box. Ryan ignored it and went into the bathroom. When he came back out in a wife-beater and boxer shorts old enough to take their final trip to the garbage can, the closet door was still open.

The box sat on the floor, displaying its deceptively nondescript gray exterior. He sighed. He cracked his neck. He stared at the box. No matter how long he held the glare, the box wouldn’t blink first. Ryan took a deep breath and got the damned thing out of the closet. 

He sunk onto the futon with the box on his lap and stared at the lid. It was time to face the demons and purge them from his system. Swallowing dryly, he reached out and opened the lid. He hadn’t bothered to tape it. He’d been too sure he would never open that box again. 

Everything was exactly in the order he’d stored it in when he had packed up the box. On top was still the yellow Berkeley t-shirt wrapped around the bottle of Chanel No. 5. He carefully took them out and set them aside. 

The framed picture underneath hit him like a kick in the groin, but he couldn’t just set it aside like the shirt and the perfume. It was a portrait picture of her, wearing one of her most elegant shirts and smiling brilliantly at the camera. Her hair was loose and she had one hand up in it, bracing her head, her chin tilted just so. She’d always known how to present herself in just the right way.

Ryan thought he’d forgotten, but he really hadn’t. He could probably remember every tiny, insignificant detail if somebody asked him for it. His thumb stroked gently over the cold glass, looking at the face that had haunted him for the past two days. He set the picture aside and reached for the next item in the box. 

It was an envelope that contained all the pictures he had kept. Graduation, Christmukkah, her birthday, his birthday, Julie and Bullit’s almost wedding… He put the envelope aside and picked up the video tape stuck against one side. His choppy hand writing was still clearly visible on the side label in black marker. ‘Taylor - Je Pants Pense’. He snorted at his own idiocy and set the tape aside.

He nearly balked at the next item. While the small cloth bound book with the folded sheet of paper stuck between its pages looked innocent, it was anything but. Those pages held all the poems she had ever translated and his very own single failed attempt at poetry. He must have gone through six notepads worth of paper until he’d finally reached that final rough draft. She had the one he’d written neatly and brought into the bookstore. Or maybe she didn’t anymore. Ryan set the book aside and didn’t dare to look at it too closely. 

That left two more books in the box before he reached the bottom. He steadfastly ignored the one with the blue cover and looked at the red scrapbook. She had made it as a Valentine’s present for him. He was afraid just touching it would send him into a flashback. But touching it wasn’t necessary. He already remembered. 

She was so excited about giving him his gift she couldn’t wait the three weeks until Valentine’s Day. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out when he opened the red book and stared at a picture of the Eiffel tower, the copy of a legal contract covered by a pen and a frighteningly accurate forgery of his own signature. The receipt for the George Foreman grill was mild in comparison, but then came the picture of him coming out of the bathroom at the movie theater and another one of him finishing a hot dog. He was definitely creeped out. She was so excited, though, and happy, flashing her bright smile at him, not the least bit embarrassed about “clocking his every move” as he flipped through the pages. 

He was hasty to assure her it wasn’t too much, because that smile meant more to him than he liked to admit. And then the smile faded because she saw something over his shoulder. He didn’t figure out until later that it wasn’t the new book store. It was the book displayed front and center in every window that had turned the exuberant smile on her face into a blank mask of shock. 

Ryan leafed through the scrapbook with different eyes this time. Back then, he hadn’t realized what two hospital bracelets taped to a sheet of card stock could do. Now he knew they were powerful demon tools. All they had to do was sit there and stare at you, and it would make you relive the memory. The same was true for the ticket stub, the candid shots of him in various places, the picture Kirsten had taken of the two of them on her birthday, and even the flattened nacho-box from the Mexican place he’d worked at back in Newport. He slammed the book shut and stared at the black TV screen on the opposite wall.

“Why?” 

He didn’t get it. Why was she in Paris getting married to another French guy?

“Taylor.” 

He rubbed his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes rolled down and landed on the last book in the box. A Season for Peaches stood against the side wall, the title and front cover as cheesy as ever. Ryan hoped she had at least managed not to pick another Henri-Michel this time.


	3. The Fight

Ryan was barely in the door when the phone rang. He jogged over to it and whipped up the receiver before the answering machine could kick in. He had expected a call back from Seth anyway.

“Yeah?” 

“Oh, good.” Sandy’s voice sounded chipper with a tinge of something wry. “You’re not halfway to Paris yet.” 

Even though Ryan knew playing dumb didn’t work with any of the Cohens, he couldn’t help but to try every time.

“Why would I be?” 

“Seth called us. He said you reacted to the news like the 'old' Ryan.” 

Ryan snorted. “Nice show of support.” He shook his head as he stalked over to the fridge and grabbed a soda. “I wasn’t relapsing. I just spilled something and had to clean it up.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Sandy could put more skepticism into one hum than philosophers could express in entire books. 

“So that's why you told him to shut up and hung up on him right after he told you Taylor's getting married?”

Ryan couldn’t take this. This wasn’t curious Sandy or even annoyed Sandy. This was supportive Sandy, digging for information.

“What she does is none of my business. It’s over. It’s been over for more than a year. She’s moved on. Good for her. So have I. “ 

Ryan hadn’t even thought of her until that stupid girl had giggled in that damned grocery store. It would go away, just like it had after the second time they’d broken up - the first time didn’t count because it had only lasted for a week - and just like it had after the third time. 

“You realize that statement would have a lot more credibility if you didn’t shut up like a clam every time someone so much as mentions Taylor's name.” 

Ryan gritted his teeth.

“And do you think Kirsten and I didn’t notice that you happened to zone out on us just after she presented you with a peach torte? Which happens to be one of Taylor’s few culinary specialties if I remember correctly.” 

Damn it. Ryan really wanted to kick the cabinets, but that would give him away, and he was not willing to show his hand. 

“I had a rough couple of days, it had nothing to do with her.” 

Sandy paused for a short moment and Ryan wondered if he was making The Face. The face that said, I am disappointed you think you can fool me but even more disappointed you’re trying to fool yourself. 

“You can’t even say her name, can you?” Sandy’s voice was dripping with disappointment and pity. 

“I could say her name just fine if I wanted to.” 

He had just uttered it last night. By himself. For the first time in over a year. Ryan was reaching the end of his rope. He tried to keep his voice as smooth and calm as possible.

“Look, Sandy. I appreciate that you worry about me, but I’m fine. I’m not freaking out. I’m not reverting to my old ways, and I’m not going to pull some stupid stunt and get on a plane to stop her wedding because I’m secretly still in love with her. I’m not.”

He ran a hand through his hair and pulled at it, which did not help the headache starting to pound in his temples. 

“Can we just drop it?” 

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy sigh. 

“Alright.” 

“Thank you.”

“But Kirsten expects to see you for dinner next Sunday. And Seth expects a call back from you. I believe he mentioned 'groveling' and ‘appropriately contrite if you’re not in international waters'. His words, not mine.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. He had expected nothing less from his adoptive brother. 

“Right. He wishes.” 

But he would call Seth anyway if for no other reason than to tell him to butt out of his business and thank him for the ringing endorsement after yesterday’s phone call.

“Don’t be too hard on him. He was just worried. We all are.” 

The fact that Sandy used the present tense did not bode well for the permanent burial of this subject.

“There’s no reason to be. I’m fine.” 

Sandy greeted that proclamation with expectant silence but Ryan refused to play ball. 

“I gotta get ready for work.” 

It was a blatant lie, but Sandy didn’t know his exact schedule, so there was no way to call him on it.

“Alright. See you on Sunday, kid.”

“Yeah, tell Kirsten and Sophie I said hi.” 

There was no need to make them worry even more because he forgot to mention something as trivial as saying “Hi”.

“Will do.”

Ryan hung up after they exchanged their goodbyes and stared contemplatively at the wall for a few minutes. 

Why did everybody insist that he was still hung up on her? He hadn’t even mentioned her clear up until today. 

The break-up had been bad the third time around. He hadn’t had the balls to tell her outright, so he’d taken the chickenshit way and written an email, a long, sincere letter full of bullshit reasons and apologies. He’d hated himself for it about two seconds after sending it. But there had been no way to take it back, so she'd received the email when she'd arrived in Le Havre, or maybe when she'd arrived in Paris, or maybe still on the boat. In any case, she never wrote back. 

In the ensuing silence, Ryan had had plenty of time to deal with the fact that they were broken up, again. Only this time there hadn't been any constant reminders hanging around. He'd moved to Berkeley. Seth had gone to Providence. Summer had started touring the planet on a mission to save it, and Caitlin had always sucked at writing emails so there had been no stray news to hit him in the back or right between the eyes. Ryan had put her out of his mind and effectively blocked out the fact that there ever had been a year with Taylor Townsend. He had thrown himself into work and his studies and had managed to get by just fine. There had been a few dates here and there, nothing serious, and never for longer than a few weeks. Ryan had gotten on with his life. 

And now he was right back at square one. Except, this time, things were different. She wasn’t going to come back and suddenly appear in front of him. There was no reason for her to come to Berkeley, none at all. 

With a heavy sigh, he fell onto the futon and tapped the phone against his knee. He should call Seth now and get this conversation over with. His brother was sure to repeat at least half of what Sandy had already said, only with more words and less respect for personal boundaries. Ryan dialed the number to Seth’s cell, lifted the phone to his ear, and waited for the click that signaled someone had picked up. 

“Ryan, mon frère. So, you aren’t on a plane halfway across the Atlantic, ready to heroically dash in and save the damsel in distress from her self-chosen golden cage?”

Ryan sighed.

~~

He should have known it wasn’t a good idea to have lunch at the most popular place for students in Berkeley, but he hadn’t been thinking. All around him the crowd was buzzing and it was only his scowl and the occasional flex of one muscle or the other that secured him his solitary place at the table he occupied. 

Some asshole from his International Studies course was holding court at a table across from him, entertaining his buddies with inane drivel. Despite the noisy din, Ryan was able to pick up some sentences here and there. He really wished he hadn’t but he couldn’t un-hear what he had heard, and his ears had to be masochistic because they strained to pick up the next words out of the bastard’s mouth.

“Damn, you have to read this book. I mean, it’s like an instruction manual to kinky sex. You just have to skip past the boring stuff.” 

Ryan closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. His gaze moved over to the table and, sure enough, International Studies asshole was holding up a copy of A Season for Peaches. The bite in Ryan’s mouth went down like sandpaper and he tried to focus on any other table than the one straight across from him. He didn’t need to hear this. 

“I’m telling you,” said the asshole. “It’s a porn classic. The stuff this girl will do is just incredible.” 

Ryan clenched his fists on the table and gritted his teeth. How the hell was this book still sold after almost two years? And why the hell did this asshole have to have a copy of it and tote it around campus to show it off?

“And it doesn’t even take long to get to the good stuff. I mean, it starts out tame for the first thirty pages of it, but then when you get to page 47…”

Ryan snapped. He didn’t even feel himself move. One moment he was sitting at his table, clenching his fists in an effort to stay in control; the next moment he had blood on his knuckles. The asshole was coming at him with a roar, fist flying towards his face. 

Ryan didn’t think. He dropped back and ducked under the punch. He dealt a sharp jab to the guy’s kidney. A wild hook connected with his jaw. The asshole impacted with his midsection. His grunt got cut off by two arms clamped around his waist, trying to knock him off his feet. He twisted with the weight, landed on top, and started pummeling the asshole's face. 

Out of nowhere, Ryan had three guys on him, dragging him back by his shoulders and arms while he kicked the air near the target of his rage. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” The asshole spit some blood on the ground and wiped his lip. 

“You.” Ryan couldn’t think clearly. “That fucking book.” 

The three guys kept holding him back, making sure he didn’t get away. If the asshole decided to use him as his punching bag, Ryan had no chance of getting out. 

“It’s just a book you stupid fuck! What? Can’t deal with a little porn for lunch?” 

Ryan struggled to break free so he could take out that miserable son of a bitch. He flailed and jerked, but they didn't budge. Three against one were never good odds. 

“Knock it off, dude. You’re out of your mind.” The voice of reason sounded like a stoned surfer. It belonged to one of the guys holding him back. 

Ryan’s nostrils flared. His fists clenched, arms jerking forward as he tried to break loose from the grip they had on him.

“Tell him to knock it the fuck off with that fucking book.” 

“Look, dude, there’s two ways we can solve this. Either, you chill out and shove off, or we call the campus police if somebody hasn’t yet.”

The word “police” snapped Ryan to his senses. The fight drained out of him. He slumped back and stopped all signs of struggle against the three guys who still had a death grip on his arms, shoulders, and even around his waist.

What the hell was he doing? Defending her honor? What a heap of bullshit. She wasn’t even here. She wasn’t even his business anymore. He had no reason to attack this guy just because he was an asshole who liked to brag about porn in public. Ryan’s head dropped forward and he closed his eyes. 

“Option one.”

The guys seemed to realize he meant it, because they slowly let go and stepped away from him. Guilt was already creeping in to replace homicidal rage. Ryan licked his lips in an effort to get his mouth wet enough to croak out an insincere apology but the asshole shook his head, straightening out his clothes. 

“Fuck off, man. Just fuck off.” 

Ryan nodded and turned away from the scene, feeling all eyes on him as he picked up his stuff and left. He knew he would be lucky if they didn’t decide to call the campus police on him anyway. He couldn’t believe he had so thoroughly lost it. Especially after reassuring both Sandy and Seth that he was fine and that there was nothing to worry about. It was obvious the old Ryan Atwood wasn’t buried as deeply as he wanted him to be after all. 

~~

Ryan slunk through the door, locked it behind him, and staggered to the futon. His hands hadn't started throbbing until he was halfway back to his place; or at least, he hadn’t noticed until then. When he reached up and touched his chin, he winced at the stinging sensation. That would turn into a nice bruise come tomorrow. And he couldn’t even feel good about the fact that he’d drawn first blood and made sure the guy would piss pink today. Not after he had proven to himself so spectacularly just how much of the old, irrational Ryan was still in him. 

He rolled over onto his side and stared a hole into the empty TV screen. His stable, solitary world had been rocked out of balance once again because of her. And she wasn’t even around to take credit for it. He was pathetic. 

Two hours later, he told himself the same thing as he called Seth and tried to sound like his jaw wasn’t starting to swell from the punch he’d taken.

“Hey man, what’s up?” 

“What’s up? I should ask you that. I think that’s actually the first time you called me. Call backs don’t count.” 

Ryan snorted and stretched out on the futon, moving his arm up to cover his eyes. 

“Consider it me trying to even the score then.” 

“Uh huh.” Seth Cohen could do the same thing with one syllable as his father. Those two could never deny their relation to one another. “And what brought on this sudden need to even the score in the first place?” 

“Boredom.” 

The lie came quick and easy. Ryan felt a twinge of shame, but it wasn’t like he could tell the truth and not face a full-fledged family meeting in the immediate future. 

“We never got to catch up. I thought we'd give it a second shot.” 

“Right, that’s going to be a bit difficult if I have to leave out all the parts even remotely related to She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” 

Ryan snorted. “She’s not Voldemort. You can say her name.” 

He tried not to think about how sad it was for a guy like him to recognize the reference to a children’s novel. That was clearly Seth’s fault. 

“Right. You’re now in the stage of proving how manly and over it you are by letting me poke around in the gaping, bleeding wound with a dirty, splintered stick.” 

“Your metaphors are a lot more graphic and disgusting since you started at RISD.” 

“Blame my roommate.” 

“Seriously, Seth. There is no wound.” Another lie. “And I’m curious what Summer has been up to. She hasn’t sent me an email since her stint with Greenpeace in Norway.” 

“Yeah, that was cool. The article in the Globe is the centerpiece of my pegboard. She really knows how to work those banners.”


	4. The Flight

He was pathetic and predictable. Ryan didn’t even know what he was doing here. On the other hand, it had taken him two hours on the phone with Seth to stealthily gather the necessary information. It would be a shame to let it go to waste. And he wasn’t going to do what his family had accused him of doing. He had no intentions to stop what was happening in two days. He just wanted to see. So, he was still pathetic but not totally predictable. 

That was why he was on a transatlantic flight with Air Tahiti Nui non-stop from San Francisco to Paris, three weeks before the end of the spring semester. Just to see. He still had about seven hours left to think about what he was doing until the plane landed at Charles de Gaulle. He had planned to numb his mind with the on-board entertainment but the selection of movies was not exactly helpful: three romantic comedies; he had already seen Fast and Furious 4; State of Play was boring; and he would sooner gouge his eyes out with the plastic spork they had given him than watch Hannah Montana: The Movie. 

Ryan was left with nothing but his mp3 player and his thoughts to keep him company for the next seven hours. His thoughts made lousy company. What the hell had possessed him to blow all the money he’d saved for a new laptop on a flight to Paris and four days stay in the cheapest hotel he could find? What did he expect to see? And what did he expect to get out of seeing her? It wasn’t like laying his eyes on her would give him some type of cathartic closure.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” 

The flight attendant in the orange dress with the puffy sleeves and white gardenia flower print down her left side smiled at him as if he hadn’t just growled under his breath.

“No, thank you.” 

The alcoholic beverages were too expensive and he had to watch every penny that was still in his pocket because he had no more savings to fall back on. Ryan watched her toddle off on her orange ballerina shoes then turned his gaze out the window. There was nothing to see except an endless expanse of white cloud cover above and below.

~~

By the time he finally made it to the hotel, he was beat. He dropped his duffel bag at the foot of the bed, sank down onto the faded red comforter, and gave the room a passing glance: red walls, red wood paneling at the headboard, faded red curtains, bright red carpet. It was just as bad as he’d seen it on the internet. The Camélia International was nothing to write home about. He was afraid to go into the bathroom and get blinded by the reality of floor to ceiling beige tiles with a spring rose pattern. He was pathetic and soon to be blind from the gruesome interior design of his chosen abode. And he had less than twenty-four hours before the wedding. 

At least this time she wouldn’t get married in a quaint little family church on private property. The ceremony would take place in the Basilique Du Sacre Coeur De Montmartre. The ‘Sacred Heart’ church was so close to this hotel he could walk there. That was a relief, considering he had no idea how bad taxi fares were in this city, and he probably couldn’t afford one even if they weren't expensive. He hoped there wouldn’t be any bouncers in tuxes or his whole plan would need to be revised. 

Ryan still couldn’t believe she was getting married to another Frenchman, making the same mistake twice. Maybe that was why he needed to see it for himself. He realized that didn’t make him sound any less insane. He had traveled six thousand miles just to watch his ex-girlfriend get married to another Frenchman. He had blown off a family dinner to do so. Ryan knew there would be hell to pay when he got back to Berkeley. Kirsten was sure to call and when she noticed he wasn’t home, and that his cell phone was out of service, she would put two and two together. Of course, she would add it up to five, but that didn’t mean she would be any less furious when he corrected her.

He sighed and fell back onto the mattress. At least the ceiling wasn’t red. The plain white was soothing in comparison to the room around him. Ryan stared up at it until his eyes blurred and he eventually crashed into sleep.

~~

The day had come. Ryan dragged his feet on the way to the church. He was halfway there and so far had changed his mind and turned around five times. What did he expect to get out of this? What if she saw him? What if Summer saw him and told her? What if he ran into someone from the wedding party or, worse, the groom? Ryan's hands felt clammy as he balled them into fists and kept walking. Across the Rue Touriaque, following Rue Caulaincourt, three more rights and one left turn, and he would be standing in front of the church. The ceremony had started five minutes ago and would be well underway by the time he got there. What was he doing? He turned around again and started walking away from his destination. But where was the sense in turning back now that he’d gone so far? He was not a coward. Ryan turned around again and kept heading toward the church. 

The building was huge. Unlike the Gothic style of most other churches in the city, this one was Romano-byzantine, offering both classical Roman archways and the characteristic turrets of Byzantine churches. Trust his ex-girlfriend to pick the odd one out. The cobblestone road leading to the church and the large area surrounding it weren’t empty as Ryan had feared. The place was bustling with tourists taking pictures and large groups following tour guides around the building. Once he had made himself climb the stone steps, there wasn’t even a sign in front of the large ornate entrance doors. Ryan took a deep breath and pushed against the door on the far right. It was heavy, but surprisingly quiet. He gulped as he slid through the crack he’d made for himself and gaped like a fish.

The church was packed. Nobody bothered to turn around and see who the late arrival was. There had to be at least three hundred people crammed into the two wide columns of pews leading from the entrance to the raised platform with the altar. There was no way she knew all those people. Some of them weren’t even dressed appropriately for a wedding. Ryan quickly moved behind one of the large pillars that would hide him from view. Not that it was even necessary. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

She didn’t even glance in the direction of the doors. She stood in front of the altar in the most beautiful champagne colored gown he’d ever seen. There was no veil to hide her face and he could see her brilliant smile all the way from the other end of the church. She was holding on tightly to a large cascade bouquet of purple and burgundy flowers bound in ivy. She was the brightest, most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Ryan was barely aware of the familiar shape of Summer, standing behind her in a pastel green dress. The guy at her side registered as nothing more than a dark haired figure in a black tux. The voice of the priest carried through the church. 

“Et maintenant, répétez-vous après moi: Moi, Jacques Auguste Bagot…“

“Moi, Jacques Auguste Bagot, je te prend, Taylor Townsend, pour être mon épouse, pour avoir et…“ 

Ryan's breath stalled in his throat. His French wasn’t much better than it had been before he attempted to learn it for her, but he didn’t need to be able to translate every word to know what the guy in the tux was saying. A lump formed in his throat and he tried to swallow it down, but it just grew in size. His mind went blank as he listened to the vows coming out of this stranger’s mouth. The guy was looking at her as if she was the only person in the world who mattered. What was even worse was that she looked back at the guy the same way. Every sound was muffled as if Ryan had cotton balls stuck in his ears. Then her voice rang out and his hearing returned with force.

“Moi, Taylor Townsend, je te prend, Jacques Auguste Bagot, pour être mon mari…“

He couldn’t listen to this anymore. He shouldn’t even be here. This had been a giant mistake. Ryan turned on his heel and escaped out the same door he had come in through. He jogged down the steps and started to run. He dashed through the tourists and blindly hurled himself across the cobblestone plaza and down the road. He crashed into someone’s shoulder and nearly knocked over another person as he sprinted aimlessly from one street to the next. 

His mind was going a mile a minute, outrunning his legs as they started to burn from the exertion. What had he been thinking? Why had he done this to himself? What had he expected would happen when he saw her there, standing at the altar and saying her vows to another guy? How insane was he to think this had been a good idea? It had been a mistake, a giant mistake of epic proportions. He should never have booked that plane. He should never have talked to Seth to get the information. He should never have looked in the box. He should never have gone to that family dinner last Sunday. He shouldn’t have set foot in that damned grocery store in the first place. 

When he finally stopped running in the middle of a street, he realized he had gotten himself thoroughly lost. And wasn’t that just perfect? Ryan Atwood, insane student from Berkeley, California lost in the sparkling city of Paris, France after crashing his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Just to see. Now that he had seen, he wished he could un-see. 

When he closed his eyes she was right in front of him. His memory provided him with details he hadn’t even noticed in the church. He had a clear image of the wide, satiny skirt with the train that ran from her waist to the floor, covering her feet. He could remember the embroidered corset that framed her chest, delicate beads swirling across the front and down to her navel. She had kept her hair down, styled in perfect ringlets like something out of a fashion magazine and draped just so over her creamy shoulders exposed by the sleeveless top of the dress. There had been some type of tiny white flowers in her hair. She didn’t wear any jewelry on her neck or her arms. She’d always known how to present herself in just the right way.

Ryan wiped a hand over his face and slumped down against the nearest wall. What the hell had he been thinking? It was a complete waste of time and money to come here. Taking this trip had accomplished absolutely nothing. It was over. She was married. She had exchanged her vows and was now officially someone else’s wife, the wife of Jacques Auguste Bagot. Who the hell would marry a guy named Jacques Auguste, anyway? 

Ryan shook his head and straightened up, looking around. He wondered how far he’d gotten in his wild chase through the city away from her. His gaze roamed the nondescript street around him. He huffed out an annoyed breath, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked slowly to the nearest larger intersection. There were a few people around who didn’t look like tourists. Ryan approached one of them and dug up the little bit of French he still remembered to ask for directions back to his hotel. 

~~

He closed the door and took the four steps necessary to collapse on the awful bed. Housekeeping was up to snuff and had cleaned the place while he was gone. Ryan stared at the soothing white ceiling and willed his mind to go blank. He had two days left in Paris, the city of art and culture. This place offered a unique and extraordinary mixture of modern and historical architecture. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. He’d barely taken a glimpse at the Eiffel tower and hadn’t even come close to the Louvre or the church of Notre Dame. He could live the rest of his life without ever seeing another church. 

Suppressing a sigh, he grabbed the remote from the bedside table and flicked on the TV. Of course everything was in French: French news, French talk show, French soap opera, French movie with Jerry Lewis. He turned off the TV and dropped the remote on the mattress beside him. What was the point, anyway? He returned his gaze to the ceiling and contemplated the fact that the crack running along the corner towards the bathroom was probably a sign of beginning structural damage. If he was lucky, the ceiling would collapse on top of him in his sleep, and he wouldn’t have to go home to face trial by parents because he would be dead.


	5. The Family Meeting

Ryan dragged his feet across the threshold, pushed the door closed behind him with one foot and slowly shuffled over to the futon. The light on his answering machine blinked accusingly and the digital display glowed with an angry, red 12. He knew he was screwed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d call them later. He deleted the messages without listening to them. No one ever called him except his adoptive family and occasionally his boss. He’d gotten approval for his impromptu vacation before he had left, so he knew she wouldn’t have called, except to remind him that he was still scheduled for his regular Monday shift today. That shift started in five hours so the only thing he cared about at the moment was catching a nap. 

His body had barely hit the mattress when the phone rang. He thought for a second about just letting the answering machine pick it up, but then hauled his arm out with a grunt and grabbed the receiver. 

“Yeah?” 

“Ryan? Where have you been?” Kirsten sounded agitated and on the verge of yelling. “We were so worried. Seth couldn’t get a hold of you on Thursday and then you didn’t call any of us back. When you didn’t show up for the family dinner, I was ready to call the police!” 

Ryan took a deep breath to answer but before he could do that, he heard a clacking noise and suddenly it was Sandy’s voice on the phone. 

“Are you alright, kid?” 

“Hm.” His voice was muffled by the pillow, so he turned over onto his back and covered his eyes with his free arm. “Yeah, I’m fine. I sent you a text message about dinner, didn’t you get it?” He had sent it from the airport before getting on the plane to Paris.

“No, we haven’t heard from you since we talked last Tuesday. And Seth hasn’t heard from you since Wednesday. Where were you?”

Ryan winced. He had hoped to escape this. Of course he’d known there would be some kind of talk about why he’d blown off Sunday's family dinner. He had never imagined they would notice he was gone for four days, though. 

“Busy?” 

Even as he uttered the one word reply, Ryan knew it wouldn’t fly with Sandy Cohen.

“Busy with what? And where?” His adoptive father’s voice was stern. “You vanished for four days. We left you at least half a dozen messages at home, and your cell phone was out of service the whole time.” 

Ryan sighed. “Look, do we have to do this now? Nothing happened. I didn’t do anything stupid.” At least, he hadn’t done anything that classified as stupid in comparison to the fuck ups of his youth. “I just got home. I’m exhausted, and I have to be at work in…” He trailed off as he looked at his watch. “Four and a half hours.” 

There was a pause as Ryan waited for Sandy to continue the interrogation. 

“Fine. Do you have work tomorrow?” 

Ryan bit his lip. The lie was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. 

“No.”

“Good. We're having a family meeting. Be there, 7 pm sharp.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Ryan hung up the phone and expelled a long hard breath. Now he had barely two hours to catch a nap before he had to take a shower and get to work. Transatlantic flights really were a bitch. 

~~

He knew the Inquisition was waiting. He would have used any possible excuse to stall, but Sandy had dictated 7 pm sharp, so that was when Ryan pulled up in front of the Cohens' house. He was already annoyed and on edge and the family meeting hadn’t even started yet. 

Kirsten greeted him at the door with a stern look and a fierce hug. She ushered him into the kitchen where Sandy was stooped over some papers. The moment Ryan set foot into the room, he folded them up and cleared them away. The cordless phone sat in the middle of the kitchen table.

“Now that we’re all here, we can start.” Sandy ‘s voice wasn’t exactly grave, but not too far from it, either.

“Hey, Ryan. Back from the Land of the Lost?” Seth’s voice came through the phone, tinny and dripping with sarcasm.

“You’re kidding.” Ryan shook his head. “What is this, Intervention?” 

He felt cornered by two people and a goddamn telephone. He clenched his jaw and crossed his arms in front of his chest, stepping away from Kirsten when she tried to touch him.

“Ryan, you were gone for four days. Nobody knew where you were, we’re worried.” Her voice straddled the fine line between imploring and accusatory. 

“It’s only four days! It was nothing. Seth sometimes doesn’t call for weeks.” 

“Um, sorry to burst your bubble, but I call, and email, and text. Which is not to say that I’m a mama's boy, I just like to keep everyone updated. And this is totally not about me, so we’re going to swing back around to you. Where were you?” 

“None of your business.” Ryan gritted the words out between his teeth.

Sandy arched a huge bushy eyebrow at him. “If it’s really nothing, then why won’t you tell us?”

Ryan stuck his chin out and kept his mouth shut. He knew what would happen if he told them. They would all start the pity party on his behalf and try to console him. Ryan didn’t want to be consoled. He didn’t want a family hug, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be told that everything would be okay. He wanted to forget the last four days had ever happened and move on with his life. He could feel all eyes on him, even Seth’s eyes through that damn phone. He clamped his lips together. 

“Man, do I really have to say it for you? Starts with a ‘P’ ends with my girlfriend’s zodiac, only spelled different.” 

Ryan groaned and dropped his chin to his chest. 

Sandy looked confused. “Papricorn?”

“Aries,” Kirsten corrected him. Then her eyes widened with a look of shock and disbelief. “You went to see Taylor?” 

Ryan hated lying to Kirsten. There was just something about it that made his stomach twist and a lump form in his throat. He could feel it swelling now, just thinking about telling a lie. 

“Nothing happened. I chickened out.” 

“Oh, Ryan.” Kirsten had the rare talent to cram all the sympathy in the world into three syllables and a touch to his elbow. 

“It’s nothing. She’s married. She’s happy. I’m over it. I just needed to see for myself, and she didn’t even know I was there, okay?” 

Saying it out loud made it sound twice as pathetic as it had inside his head. Ryan could feel the weight of Kirsten and Sandy’s pity in their stares. It was awful, and he just wanted to get the hell out of there. Then Seth’s voice broke the silence. 

“Let me get this straight. You went all the way to Paris, even though you hate flying, and then you went to the church and watched Taylor getting married to some other guy, even though you’re still in love with her, and then you left Paris again without even talking to her because you’re secretly a big old masochist who likes to tort-” 

Ryan snarled. “I’m not…”

At the same time Sandy belatedly cut in. “Seth, that’s enough.” 

“I’m sorry, dad. Somebody’s got to say it. He’s been moping around for almost two years now and-”

“I’m out of here.”

Ryan pushed away from the table with a growl. He wasn’t going to listen to this shit for another minute. He rushed past Kirsten’s worried frown and Sandy’s heavy stare and jogged toward the front door as quickly as he could. He couldn’t take this. The damn Cohens and their damn meddling had always been a tad too much for him. In this case it was far too much. It was his own damned life and if he wanted to go to Paris to watch his ex-girlfriend marry another guy, then that was his damn prerogative. 

Ryan jumped into his jeep and slammed the door shut behind him. By the time he pushed the key into the ignition, Kirsten and Sandy were coming down the stone steps in front of the house. He ignored them and clenched his jaw as he turned the key, slammed the shift into first gear and stepped on the gas. His name carried to him on the wind, but Ryan didn’t spare more than a passing glance for the sight of a shocked Kirsten yelling in his rear view mirror. He couldn’t deal with this right now. 

~~

Ryan slammed his door behind him and tossed his keys on the little table. He stalked over to the kitchenette and ripped the fridge open, eyes skittering over its meager contents. He didn’t find anything he wanted and slammed the door shut. Bracing both hands on the top, he dropped his head between his shoulders. He wanted a drink. Scratch that, he wanted to get absolutely shitfaced. Today’s tribunal called for it. His entire family had ganged up on him and tried to make him admit that he was still in love with a person who had been out of his life for almost two years. He wasn’t. If anyone should know, it would be him. And he wasn’t. He was pissed off, though.

Pushing himself off from the fridge, he whirled around and stalked over to the closet, ripped the door open and gave the box on the bottom a vicious kick. He grabbed a black shirt, his oldest pair of jeans, and his dark brown leather jacket and threw them behind him onto the futon. Screw them all. He’d go out and get drunk. He couldn’t really afford it right now, but since he hadn’t done anything, or even eaten outside of his complementary breakfast in Paris, there was still some money left to blow. 

He took a deep breath, squared his jaw and prowled into the bathroom to take a shower. Who did they think they were, anyway? They knew nothing about it. Seth with his super-heroine girlfriend, and Sandy and Kirsten with their marriage that withstood just about anything, including the apocalypse. They just couldn’t fathom that anyone would be fine on their own. Really, it was all them and their overactive imaginations. 

Ryan burst out of the shower, rubbing the towel aggressively over his hair and down his body to dry off. He didn’t bother with underwear and jammed his legs straight into the smooth, worn denims. He adjusted his package, pulled up the zipper, grabbed the black shirt and whipped it over his head. Once he had his boots on, he ran his fingers through his hair and stomped over to the door, grabbing his keys on the way out. 

There was a nightclub not too far away. Blake's. He’d never been there, but he’d thrown away at least a hundred of their fliers since he started at Berkeley. As long as they had beer and shooters, he didn’t care.


	6. The Summer Storm

Ryan groaned as he swam back into consciousness. His head was pounding as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. He moved as slowly as possible to bring up a hand and shield his eyes before he even tried to open them to the harsh light of day. He cracked his lids open just far enough to see if it was actually worth waking up yet. When his eyes skimmed to the nightstand, he registered dimly that the alarm clock that should be there wasn’t. On second thought, there shouldn’t be a night stand. 

Ryan groaned again and slowly rolled his head to take in the unfamiliar room. Expensive colonial furniture, expensive computer, expensive flat-screen TV, expensive jewelry tossed carelessly onto an expensive Art Deco glass table. No respect for interior design. He was at someone’s place, but he had no idea who that someone was. They were definitely not hurting for money, though. 

His mouth was as dry as the desert and his tongue rasped against the roof of his mouth when he swallowed. Every muscle in his body protested as he turned over to the other side of the mattress. She was not quite blonde but not really brunette either with long hair that fell over her naked back. She was petite, judging by the small lump under the - expensive - sheets. She was also waking up and turning around to face him. That was not good, especially because Ryan had no recollection of who she was, where they were, or how he got here in the first place. The only thing he knew for sure was that they were both naked. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened after they’d ended up that way. Ryan took a deep breath, about to say something, but she beat him to the punch.

“So, who’s Taylor?” 

He blinked, then blinked again and snapped his mouth shut.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I was just curious.” The not-quite-blonde sat up and stretched until her vertebrae popped. 

“Um. I should go.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of anywhere but here.

Ryan was beyond uncomfortable. He hadn’t had a one-night stand since that waitress in Albuquerque, and now he’d hooked up with some random stranger whose name he couldn't remember. Worse than that, he’d obviously dropped his ex-girlfriend’s name somewhere in whatever they had been doing, which he also couldn’t remember. 

The not-quite-blonde laughed at him, flopped back on the mattress, and rubbed her hands over her face and through her hair. 

“Sure, you go. Whatever.” 

Ryan blinked some more, surprised that she was taking this so easy. She didn’t seem offended in the least. He still felt he owed her an apology.

“Listen, whatever happened last night…” He trailed off, not sure how to phrase things.

“Oh, come off it. Don’t even try.” She turned her head and grinned at him. “Just turn on the coffee pot on your way out, and make sure you close the door right.” She rolled back over and proceeded to ignore him in favor of curling up under her blankets. 

Ryan swallowed, pole-axed for a moment, before he jerked into motion. He picked up his clothes from the floor and got dressed as quickly as possible. On his way out, he did turn on the coffee pot like she’d asked. He had just opened the door when her voice rang out from the bedroom.

“So long, and thanks for all the fish!” 

Ryan stepped out with a bemused look and closed the door firmly behind him.

~~

He stumbled into his apartment and threw the keys on the side table, ripping off his shirt as he headed straight for the shower. He ignored the blinking on the answering machine on his way.

When he came back out twenty minutes later, squeaky clean and a little less pissed off with himself, he took a second glance at the machine. There were only three messages. He had expected more, especially after his dramatic exit from the Cohens last night. But that didn’t mean he was ready to deal with them quite yet. 

He stalked over to the kitchenette and made himself a bowl of cereal. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth, but he gagged it down anyway. It had been years since his last one-night stand. He hadn’t done that since that waitress in the bar his mother worked at. Sure, he’d had sex occasionally over the course of the past two years and a total number of zero serious relationships, but he’d always at least made an attempt at dating the women before he slept with them. What the hell had gotten into him last night? 

He shoved the empty cereal bowl into the sink with an annoyed grunt and jerked on the faucet to fill it with water. He slammed the faucet back down and ran a hand through his hair. There was no sense mulling over it. So he'd had a one-night stand. So what? The girl had obviously been fine with it, and he wasn't under any moral obligation to have a relationship with a person just because they had sex. So, there really was no reason to dwell on this. Especially when there were bigger problems to deal with in his present. 

Ryan huffed out a breath and shook himself out of it. Right, bigger problems, like the three unanswered messages on his machine. The Cohens, no doubt, trying to yell at him for bailing on the family meeting. He should really call them back. 

One glance at his watch and he absolutely did not breathe a sigh of relief when he saw that he had to get ready for class. He most definitely did not feel a twinge of guilt for feeling relieved either. No sir-ree, not at all. 

~~

Three and a half hours later, Ryan shuffled back into his apartment, dropped his backpack as soon as he made it through the door, and made a beeline for the bathroom. His head was killing him. 

The aspirin in the medicine cabinet was his savior. He knocked back a handful of the white pills with a glass of water and was staring at the bags under his eyes when a series of loud thuds made him cringe. Someone was banging their fist on his front door. Judging by the force of the thuds, a very large, very pissed off someone. 

“Alright, alright! I'm coming.” 

It wasn't the police, they would have announced themselves by now. Ryan's door didn't have a spy hole, so he erred on the side of caution and slid the chain into it's chamber before he even reached for the doorknob. When had he turned into a coward? He cracked the door open, and it rattled against the chain as the person on the other side tried to force their way in. 

“Atwood, you will open this damn door and let me in, right now!” 

The squeaky voice was instantly recognizable, but Ryan couldn't believe it. 

“Atwood! Open up!” A resounding kick banged against the other side of the door.

“Okay, okay, hold on!”

He closed the door on her, careful not to smash any of her furiously flailing body parts, before he removed the chain and opened it again. The unexpected hard push from the other side made him stumble back as the door flew open. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!” 

Summer Roberts was a sight to behold when she was in the throes of one of her rage blackouts. Her hair was pulled up in a haphazard bun, strands sticking out wildly – like Medusa's snakes – and her face was the shade of a ripe tomato. 

“Do you have any idea how many hours of soothing, and reassuring, and talking down off of proverbial trees it took? How much hard work? The frigging amount of blood, and sweat, and tears, all of which were actual, and real, and not even a little bit proverbial?!” 

“What are you doing here?” 

Ryan knew it was a bad idea to interrupt Summer on a rant, but he couldn't help it. She was supposed to be in Paris, or somewhere else on the globe, protesting against some environmental crime or another. There was no reason for her to come to Berkeley, much less to have a screaming fit while she was here. 

“What am I doing here?” She pulled herself up to her full height, which still only brought her up to his nose. “What the hell were you doing there?!” 

There? Where? Paris? Oh. Uh-oh. 

“Um.” He shuffled his foot as he scrambled to come up with an excuse. 

“Oh, no.” She shook her head and wagged her pointy finger at him. “You do not get to do that.” 

As his mouth started to shape the 'w' for his next question, she cut him off. 

“You do not get to play the clueless, mono-syllabic Chino boy with me, mister.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You know exactly why I'm here, and why you should be groveling.” Her finger poked his sternum. “To me, and to the Cohens, and to whomever else you hurt with that stupid stunt!” 

Ryan sighed. “Seth called you.” 

Of course, Seth would have called her. He would have been on the phone with her the minute after he hung up with Sandy and Kirsten.

“What? No, dummy. Seth did not call me. I saw you.” Her nostrils flared as she emphasized the last bit. 

Ryan did a double take and his eyes bugged out. “No way!” 

There was no way she had seen him. He hadn't been at the church for more than five minutes, and he'd been standing behind a pillar. And he hadn't made any noise. There was just no way.

“At the wedding?” Summer's eyebrows hiked up towards her hairline. “Around the French version of 'I do' ? That was not you, hiding pathetically behind a pillar way in the back?” She snorted and changed her voice to a nasty high pitched drawl. “I'm sorry, I must have confused you with some other broody California boy who likes to wear wife-beaters and leather jackets, and stare longingly at another guy's wife!” 

Okay, so she had definitely seen him. 

“You didn't tell her, did you?” The words rushed out before he could clamp his teeth shut on them. 

“Are you insane? Of course I didn't!” 

“Good.” Relief felt oddly like a ton of bricks crashing onto his shoulders. 

“Yes, it is good. Very good. In fact, you owe your life to the fact that she didn't see you and I didn't tell her.” Summer's lips pursed in disgust. A sure sign that she was not finished. “She’s happy, Ryan. H – A – P – P – Y.” Summer spelled out the word with sharp jabs of her finger into his sternum. “As in, why would you be so dumb and show up at the church when it could have ruined everything?”

She kept advancing on him as she spoke, forcing him to retreat further into the apartment. 

"Look, I'm sorry." 

He brought his hands up in a defensive gesture as he tried to navigate the small space backwards. 

"Don't give me that, either. I want an explanation, right now, and an apology for trying to evade me." She jabbed him in the chest again. 

He took one more step backwards, stumbled over something, and landed hard on his lower back. Pain flared up his spine; his skull smacked into a hard surface, and for a second he saw red, then black as his body tried to figure out what hurt worse, his head or his ass. 

"Serves you right!"

Ryan growled between gritted teeth and slowly lifted his gaze to Summer's face. He'd had enough of this. 

"Are you done?"

His tone must have conveyed his mood, because Summer took a step back and snapped her mouth shut even before he started to move. 

"Good." 

He pulled himself to his feet, cradling the throbbing part of his head, and checked for blood. There wasn't any. 

"Because I'm done." 

It was surprisingly easy to ignore the gut-punch feeling when he looked into her betrayed eyes. Her mouth opened, but he cut her off before she could start. 

"She didn't see me. She got her damn dream wedding, and I'll deal with the Cohens." 

He stared Summer down and dared her to say another word. 

She jutted her chin out and crossed her arms defiantly.

"Bullshit." 

Ryan closed his eyes, took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. 

“Summer,” he growled her name in warning. 

She ignored it like she always did when she was convinced she was right and righteous. 

“If everything is so ‘done’,” she said, “then why did you just go ass over teakettle over the box?” 

Ryan froze. There was no way she could know about that. He hadn’t told anyone about the box. 

“How do you know about ‘The Box’?” 

Summer rolled her eyes and pointed at the floor behind him. “The box. Behind you.” 

His brows shot up in relief. She didn’t know about the box. Except, now he’d made her curious, and her eyes were already zoned in on it. His gaze strayed to the box and he wondered just how suspicious he would look if he hurled himself at it, threw it in the closet, and placed himself in front of the closet doors for good measure. Probably very suspicious. 

Summer’s brows furrowed. She dove forward without warning. Ryan scrambled to stop her, but it was a futile effort because Summer was worse than a ferret when she was going after something she wasn’t supposed to have. He couldn’t get a hold of both her hands at the same time, and her tiny, powerful legs scrabbled to get away from him even as she squeaked in outrage at being manhandled. But she still got her hands on the box. 

“A-ha!” She exclaimed in triumph when she pulled the lid off and brandished Taylor’s picture at him. “A bunch of Taylor-themed items inside a box? In the middle of the floor instead of tucked away somewhere? Yeah, you’re clearly ‘done’ with it.” She nodded sarcastically. 

Then she huffed and puffed and looked at him with nothing but pity as she slipped out of his grip and sat up cross-legged on the floor. “Ryan, why couldn’t you say something earlier?” 

Ryan couldn’t stand the way she looked at him. It reminded him of his first year in Newport; or the period of time after Marissa died and before - before her. He shook his head. 

“Because there’s nothing to say. I broke up with her.” 

Before Summer could respond, he got up and walked away. Grabbing his jacket and keys, he made sure to slam the door on his way out, so she knew not to follow him. Let her go through the damn box. Why should he care?


	7. The End of It?

In the end, he wound up at the Cohens' doorstep, just like every other time when things got messy and he needed a place to straighten out. Kirsten greeted him with the same motherly concern she had when he'd stormed out the other day, while Sandy gave him an encouraging look under his impressive eyebrows. It didn’t come as a surprise that Summer was there, on the couch, watching ‘The Valley’ on DVD with Sophie next to her. 

Ryan wasn’t sure what to say, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and didn’t say anything. He tried to stand his ground against Summer’s gaze, even though it peeled off at least three layers of tough guy bravado and stabbed at the squishy spots he pretended not to have. He had no idea how Seth did it. Finally, she blew a thick curl out of her face and reduced the power of her glare. 

“You’re just in time,” she said. “We’re watching the episode where the gang goes to Vegas and the girls are trying to hide from the guys that April might be pregnant.” 

Ryan grunted out something about art imitating life and breathed a sigh of relief when Summer offered him the popcorn bowl.

~~

Summer ended up staying with the Cohens for about a week before she returned to her activist duties with GEORGE. Ryan was sad to see her go, but happy to get back to his life before the Incident. He had finals and a load of reading to catch up on. Luckily, there hadn't been too much trouble with any of his professors for ditching class. Life moved on. And if he avoided sleep in favor of studying, forcibly zoned out for most of his International Studies classes and happened to go a couple miles out of his way to frequent a different grocery store on his way to the weekly family dinner, that didn't necessarily mean anything. 

Ryan threw himself into work the moment the semester ended. He planned to spend the next two months working as many hours as possible to earn back the money he had blown on the Incident. The problem was that working at a pizza shop made for a lousy distraction. There was plenty of business to keep him running, but nothing to keep his mind preoccupied. It didn't take a genius to slap a 14 inch meat lovers on a plate and put it down in front of a customer. It also didn't help that he kept running face first into déjà vus. One moment, he'd be fine, pouring a refill on table three, only to turn around and be confronted with the sight of a couple that looked an awful lot like him and her, acting cutesy over a cheese deluxe on table five. 

Things just sucked for a while, and his heavy bag was getting one hell of a workout. The only upside to all of it was that he was putting on muscle and raking in generous tips, mostly from female customers. Ryan ignored their subtle flirting with his usual grim-faced expression. He knew it didn't make a damn difference, as long as he kept wearing close-fitting t-shirts and washed out jeans. He payed just enough attention to get their orders right, and their faces blended together in an endless string of coy smiles and cheeky winks. Until one of them struck him like a bullet to the face. 

Huge blue doe eyes glittered below a shaggy blonde fringe. Her freckled nose crinkled, and her prominent cheekbones sharpened her angular features even more when she smiled at him. If it wasn't for the wet tray weighing down his hand, Ryan would have sworn this was a hallucination.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Whoever you want me to be.” His voice sounded raspy and muffled in his ears, as if it was coming from very far away.

“Okay.” She laughed. “And what happened to Eddie?”

Even her laugh was the same. She looked exactly like Ryan remembered, as if not a day had gone by. His heart squeezed and his eyes watered. He opened his mouth to say something.

“You know what?” she said, “Who cares? Can I get an order of chili cheese fries and a cherry coke?”

Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head once. When he opened them again, he stared straight ahead at the picture on the wall behind her. 

“Sure,” he said. “Coming right up.” 

He turned around and headed for the kitchen without looking back, yelling the order towards the line cook on his way out the back door. Ryan doubled over next to the dumpsters. He didn't throw up, but he came close. The ghost of his first love was sitting at table seven, waiting for chili cheese fries and a cherry coke. He straightened up and took a couple deep breaths, trying not to gag at the smell of garbage. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. There were a million blonde and blue eyed girls in California. She was just another one.

Ryan served her order without looking at her and didn't go back to offer any re-fills, shop rules be damned. When he returned to the table to drop off the check, there was a twenty dollar bill clamped under the saltshaker, more than enough to cover her bill. The ghost was gone. He picked up the shaker to grab the money and furrowed his brows at the folded paper napkin he found underneath. On it was a local number in blue ink written below the words 'call me some time' in girly handwriting. He curled his lips in a sneer, crumpled up the napkin and tossed it into the empty fry basket to throw out with the rest of the trash. Ryan pushed aside the feeling of unease over the encounter and finished his shift. 

By the time he walked out of the backdoor again, the sky was pitch black. He zipped up his jacket, shoved his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders against the frigid night air and started the brisk walk to his jeep at the back of the parking lot. He was only a few steps away from the building when she called out after him. 

“Hey.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and a shiver crawled down his spine. Ryan narrowed his eyes and set his jaw before he turned around to look at her. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly.

“Waiting for you.”

She shrugged and skipped across the few steps between them, pulling ahead of him before she turned around and placed herself firmly in his way. She cocked her head to the side and graced him with a cheeky smile. 

“I didn't think you'd actually call.”

“I wouldn't.” 

Ryan squared his shoulders and forced himself to look at her. Her skirt was so short it barely covered her ass, and the shirt she wore was made for sunny days in Newport, not the chilly nights they got up here in Berkeley. He could see the goosebumps on her skinny arms as she shivered from the cold and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She made no move to get out of his way as they stared at each other in silence. Ryan sighed. 

“What do you want from me?” 

“Do you want to go somewhere together?” she asked hopefully. “Just to hang out. You look like you could use someone to hang out with.”

He twitched his lips in a sarcastic smirk and cocked his head. “And what if I don't want to hang out with you?” 

Her big blue eyes watered immediately. Her bottom lip trembled as she stared at him like he had picked up her favorite puppy and slit its throat from one fluffy ear to the other. It was surreal. Ryan felt like he was back in high school, being lured into a game he couldn't hope to win. But he was older now. He refused to play.

“Listen, it's nothing against you. I'm just-”

“Will you at least take me home?”

“Something wrong with your car?”

“I walked here.” 

“Jesus.” Ryan shook his head, biting down on his lip with an exasperated chuckle. “You always needed saving.”

“What?” She looked confused.

“Nothing,” he said. “Come on.” 

He jerked his head in the direction of his jeep and started walking. She followed him like a docile lamb and even needed help buckling her seat belt before he could get the car started and pull out on the road. The bright streetlights illuminated her face as they drove, and Ryan couldn't help but keep glancing at her from the corner of his eyes. He was afraid this was just another hallucination, but when he pinched himself hard in the thigh, she didn't disappear from the passenger seat. 

“Where do you live?” he asked finally. 

“Not far. Just keep going, I'll tell you where to turn.” 

He nodded and tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

“It's a nice car.” She leaned back in her seat. “Safe.” 

Ryan chortled, turning his head so she wouldn't see the expression on his face. There was a lump starting to form in his throat. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” 

“What?”

“You said it was nothing against me, so I'm wondering if you have a girlfriend and that's why you don't want to hang out.”

“Ah.” He shook his head. “No, I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” she asked right away.

“No.” He laughed. 

He had almost forgotten how conceited teenage girls could be. Especially her. 

“Then what's the problem?” she asked waspishly.

Because she obviously couldn't imagine that a guy was simply not interested in her. Ryan tilted his head and said nothing. 

“What?” She gaped at him. 

He still didn't say anything. 

“What?” She smacked his arm. “Tell me! What is it?” 

“Okay, alright.” He fended off her smacking hand. “You remind me of someone.” 

She hummed sagely and contemplated him through narrowed eyes. 

“Ex-girlfriend.” She nodded. “Obviously, she was the one who dumped you.” 

“She died.” 

Ryan congratulated himself on how calm he had sounded when he said that.

“Oh, I'm... I'm so sorry.” She looked nervous and sincerely contrite. “I didn't mean to-”

“It was a long time ago.” 

Surprisingly, it didn't feel like a lie. The silence grew like a bubble around them until it popped. 

“You want to take a left up there.” She didn't look at him. 

He followed her direction without paying attention to the name of the street. 

“Can we go to the beach?” 

“Huh?” He turned his head and arched his eyebrows.

“We don't have to. I'd just really like to go.” 

“You'll freeze to death.” 

“I don't mind the cold.” 

“The beach is closed.”

“Not literally. I know a spot. We can park across the street and walk.” 

Ryan glared at her, letting her know exactly what he thought of the idea. He had no desire to get caught trespassing by a cop, much less in the company of a girl who probably wasn't even old enough to drink legally. 

“Come on,” she wheedled. “Please?” 

Her eyes were huge and her smile was clearly designed to mess with his head. She even had her hands folded, fingers linked together, and waggled them back and forth in an effort to seem more childlike. Ryan gritted his teeth, turned away, and glued his stare to the windshield. The steering wheel squeaked inside his grip.

“Please,” she said quietly as her hands dropped in her lap, “Just for a while. I don't want to go home.” The smile was gone from her voice. 

Ryan slammed his fist into the steering wheel with a muttered curse. His gaze shifted to glare at her, but the look on her face melted the last bit of his resolve, just like it always had. They were already headed west, anyway. 

He pulled onto the road that ran parallel to the beach and found an empty spot along the curb to park his jeep. On the other side of the street, the beach was a dull gray strip, white foam lapping at its edges from the roaring black water beyond. Ryan had barely turned off the engine before she was climbing all over him to look out the window on the driver side. 

“I don't see any cops,” she said. “Do you?” 

He gritted his teeth and said nothing, waiting for her to move off his lap and flop back into the passenger seat.

“Come on! It's going to be great.” She grinned, her fingers closing around the door handle. “Ready?”

Ryan saw the bright gleam in her eyes, and he was sixteen all over again: chasing the pretty girl, beating up some rich kid over her, nearly burning to death in a model McMansion, watching her spiral, trying to save her from herself, pills, theft, alcohol, drugs, psychos, dealers, her family, his family, losing himself in the process until everything culminated in bright headlights in his rear view mirror, screeching tires, shattering glass and twisted metal. 

“Wait.” 

He wasn't that guy anymore. It didn't matter how pretty she was or how nicely she asked. He was no longer a push-over for puppy dog eyes. He wasn't willing to risk anything to appease her fickle nature. 

“What?” 

Her big round eyes shone in the light of the streetlamps. Her pout was pretty now, but Ryan knew what to expect; she wouldn't like what he had to say next. 

“Let's not do this.” 

“What?” Her pout turned into a scowl. “What's the problem?”

“Nothing. It's just not a good idea. Let me take you home.”

“God, you're such a dud. Suit yourself.” 

She scoffed at him and pushed the door open, swinging her legs out of the car. 

“Hey, wait.” 

His words were drowned out by the slam of the passenger side door. 

“I don't need you to have fun.” She stepped backwards down the sidewalk. “And I can find my own way home from here.”

Ryan watched as she flipped him off while walking backwards a few steps before she turned around and stalked off on her unseasonable sandals. He was just about to get out of the car and follow her, to convince her to let him take her home, when she stepped through the garden gate of one of the beach rentals. He shook his head as she stuck out her tongue, skipped up the flagstone path, and disappeared inside the house. 

~~

Ryan tossed his keys on the little end table and shuffled over to his futon, taking his shirt off on the way. He chucked the dirty shirt in the general direction of the bathroom and started to take off his pants. The light on his answering machine was blinking with a new message. He pushed the button and bent over to take off the boots that were trapping his pants around his ankles. 

“Figures, I call to hear your voice...” 

Ryan stumbled over his own feet face first into the futon. 

“... and it's the automated message guy.” 

Her voice was low and a little slurred but unmistakable. Taylor. 

“This is stupid. Stupid. Hi!” Her tone shifted to the obnoxious, bright falsetto of a well-trained Newpsie. “Hi, Ryan, how are you? It's been a while. I just wanted to check in for old times' sake, see how you're doing.” 

Ryan stared at his answering machine, turning sideways to rest more comfortably on the futon, the pants around his ankles forgotten. 

“Who am I kidding? You're never going to buy that. I have no idea what I'm doing here. This is ridiculous. I just … ” Her heavy sigh made the speakers crackle and her next words were too low to make out. “Sorry. Forget it. Never mind. Feel free to ignore this. It's just an old flame drunk dialing. Anyway, I hope you have a wonderful life. Adieu!” 

The recording shut off with a click and Ryan was left in complete silence, staring dumbly at his answering machine. He sat up on his futon and slowly took off his shoes then his pants. He looked at the machine, no longer blinking, and pushed the button on the base. 

“Figures, I call to hear your voice and it's the automated message guy.”


	8. The Journey (Part 1)

Asking for more time off after less than six weeks had gone over as well as he had expected. Ryan was out of a job and using up most of the tips he had accumulated over the past three weeks on a plane ticket to Newark, New Jersey. Another ticket to Paris had been out of the question. He knew he would be gone for more than a few days this time around and took the five hours on the plane to decide what he would tell his family. With any luck, he could just leave a message if he called the right phone at the right time. He figured out the shortest, most meaningful message halfway through his complimentary cheese sandwich. Once he got out of the airport, he took a steadying breath and dialed Seth's cell phone. 

“Helloooo stranger.”

Ryan's heart stopped. He had hoped Seth would be off somewhere, nerding out with fellow RISD geeks. He had to talk fast. 

“Seth, Taylor called. I'm-”

“You picked the wrong time to call. Awkward.” 

Ryan groaned. Of course Seth would have one of those obnoxious fake-out voicemail recordings. He'd have to punch him for that later. 

“If you don't want to deal with the machine, I'll totally understand. Just try again later. No hard feelings, I promise.”

Ryan rolled his eyes, drummed his fingers on his thigh, and waited for the beep. 

“If you do want to deal with the machine, go ahead. Here's your chance. The mic is yours.”

Finally! The beep. 

“Seth, it's Ryan. Taylor called. I'm bringing her home. Tell Sandy and Kirsten.” 

He hung up the phone and stuck it back in his pocket. Then he started to cross the lanes to the bus stop. 

The internet had drummed up a place to crash for the night that didn't cost an arm and a leg. Some smart kids across the Bay had figured out how to make money by renting their place out as a temporary hotel room and started a quickly growing business from that. Ryan had picked someone from their website who offered a spare bedroom for twenty bucks a night. He could get there with public transportation, and the place was close to the harbor, which was a bonus. 

Ryan listened to his mp3 player on the way; he turned up the volume on Chain Reaction when his phone started to ring. By the time he crashed on his host's pull-out couch somewhere in Elizabeth, New Jersey, his voicemail was full. 

The next morning, he took a bus to the seaport and started looking for passage to France. Ryan went from ship to ship, asking for a job as a work-away and, four hours later, managed to get himself hired on a container ship with a Russian crew working under a German captain. 

A senior officer showed him to his small cabin with en-suite bath. Ryan put down his stuff and counted his remaining cash; less than fifty bucks to last him until they anchored in Le Havre, and he knew he couldn't spare more than a couple hundred dollars in his bank account to get from there to Paris. 

The first few days getting used to the constant rocking motion of the ship were hell, but after that everything became mindless routine. The crew were his kind of people. They didn't talk much and kept to themselves. He spent the next eighteen days chiseling off old paint from the ship and applying fresh coats, sweeping decks, and loading supplies in the four ports they called into prior to Le Havre. 

Thanks to his ship mates, he found out how to catch a train from Le Havre to Paris for less than twenty bucks. When he arrived in Paris for the second time in as many months, it was at the train station in the heart of the city. 

It took him a few minutes to find a phone booth and almost an hour to figure out how to get the phone card he needed to be able to work it. At least there weren't too many Bagots in the phone book and only five with the initials J. A. The only reason Ryan didn't chicken out was the three words that had gotten him all the way here in the first place. They were stuck in his head and pulled his heart like a leash. 

Ryan had listened to her message over and over again. After several times, he had turned up the volume, and on the sixth or seventh repeat he had finally caught what she had said after the crackle and before she told him to forget it: I miss you. There was no mistaking it, not after listening to it another dozen times. 

He picked up the receiver and dialed the first number, following the instructions on the label in front of him. The first three calls were a bust. On the fourth, a woman answered the phone in French. Ryan repeated his broken opening line for the fourth time. 

“Bonjour. Je voudrais parler a Taylor. Je suis un ami.” 

“Un moment, s'il vous plait.” 

Ryan waited as the line went quiet, forcing himself to keep breathing. His hands were cold and he could feel sweat break out on the back of his neck. There was another rattle as someone picked up the receiver on the other end. 

“Allo?” 

The sound of her voice tugged on the leash. His heart thumped against his rib cage. It was all or nothing.

“Hey Taylor.” 

“Ryan?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “How are you?” He cringed. 

“Good,” she said too quickly. “Good. I'm good- well. I mean I'm doing well. How are you?” Her tone was Newpsie, bright and chipper. 

“I'm alright.” 

Ryan didn't know what to say. Now that she was actually on the other end of the line, he felt like a fool. What had he expected? That he was going to call her and ask for her address and then just go to pick her up? She was married, not stuck at the spa after a mani-pedi. 

The silence dragged on. Taylor had always been the one to fill it. That she wouldn't say anything now was all kinds of wrong. 

“Taylor, I-”

“Listen,” she interrupted him. “If this is about my phone call a couple weeks ago, I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to come off like-”

“I want to see you.” 

He didn't want to hear her apologize. He never wanted her to apologize for that call. If anything, she should have called sooner. If anything, he should have stopped being an idiot months ago. 

“Can we meet?” he asked. “I'm in town.” 

“You're in Paris? How? Why?” 

“Work.”

Technically, it was the truth, since he had been working on board the ship to pay for his passage across the ocean. 

“Oh. Um. I don't know. This is really sudden.” 

“Please? I'd love to see you.” He stared at the label on the phone in front of him and decided to take the risk. “I miss you.” 

More silence stretched between them, and Ryan would have thought she hung up on him if it wasn't for the fact that he could hear her breathe on the other end of the line. She was probably thinking of ways to let him down easy. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and banged his head against the edge of the telephone box. He nearly missed it when she finally said something.

“Where are you?” 

His mood lifted like a ton of bricks tumbling off his shoulders and he took a full breath for the first time since this conversation had started.

“St. Lazare? There's an opera house.” He looked around, trying to find other distinguishing landmarks. 

“Yeah, I know where it is.” She chuckled. “There's a good cafe not too far from there. Le Co- You know what? Don't worry about that. Meet me at the MacDonald's across the street from the Opera? I can be there in twenty minutes.” 

“Okay.” He sighed in relief. “I'll be there.” 

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.” 

~~

Ryan was pacing back and forth in front of the Micky D's when Taylor appeared out of nowhere and greeted him with quick pecks on his left and right cheek. Before he could do or say anything, she ushered him down the sidewalk and around the corner. He kept his mouth shut until they sat down at one of three curbside bistro tables outside a cafe called something French he couldn't care less about. 

A waiter descended upon them right away, and Taylor placed the order for both of them. Ryan was pretty sure she had ordered black coffee for him, which suited him just fine. As soon as the waiter disappeared, she sat back in her chair and folded her hands neatly in her lap. 

“So, Ryan, mon ami en Paris.” She smiled brightly. “Quelle surprise!” 

“Yeah. I know.” He ducked his head. “You look...” He flinched as he looked at her. “Good.”

“Thanks, you too.”

She looked terrible. Not that anyone else would be able to tell. Taylor would never let herself go in a visible way. Her appearance was immaculate, and she looked as beautiful as ever, but her rosy complexion and apple blossom cheeks were a carefully crafted blend of makeup and blush. Her lipstick smile was brittle. 

She sat perfectly still, tense as a bowstring, until the waiter brought their drinks. She moved in controlled motions as she scooted forward and picked up her cup. Her pristine, manicured nails were acrylics. 

“So, you're here for work?” A strand of hair fell loosely over her forehead. “I would have figured you would do something closer to Berkeley during semester break. You are still going to Berkeley, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

Ryan watched as she took a sip, nodded her head, and replaced the cup on its saucer, folding her hands back into their tight grip on her lap. The strand of hair remained where it was. He scowled. 

Taylor was fidgety by nature. She should have swiped the hair out of her face, played with the cup, gestured with her hands as she talked. This Taylor was too still. She contained herself as if she was afraid to give herself away if she didn't control every motion of her body. 

“Wow.” she said. “Who would have thought? You and I sitting here, having coffee.” 

“Yeah, who would have thought?”

Not him, that's for sure. Not until he listened to her voicemail message two dozen times and ended up asking his ex-boss for time off the very next day. He wasn't sure he would have a good explanation if anyone asked him to provide it, at least not one that made sense to a rational person.

“Ryan, why are you here?” 

It was a good thing Taylor wasn't a rational person. Ryan had to bank on that now. If he was wrong, he would make a big fool of himself. 

“I want another chance,” he said. “Us, back together.” 

“I-” 

Her mouth opened and closed as she blinked furiously and swiped the strand of hair out of her face. She made an aborted motion for the cup then folded and refolded her hands in her lap only to bring them back up onto the table and pick up the cup. She took a sip and placed the cup back on its saucer with a loud clatter.

“I don't know what to say.” 

Ryan winced. “I know.” He grimaced. “I should have showed up sooner, stopped the wedding.” 

“Wait, what?” The cup rattled again. “You were here? Were you here all this time?” 

“No. Just a couple days. For the wedding.” He shrugged. “You looked beautiful.” 

“Mon dieu! Ryan, what were you thinking?” 

“I don't know!” He writhed under her look. “I wasn't.” 

She gaped. “You just needed to see me actually get married, again, to a Frenchman, again, didn't you? Probably nearly chickened out, too. And of course when you got my message you thought that I realized my grave mistake and was reaching out for help but didn't know how to ask, so you boarded the next plane-”

“Ship.”

She rolled her eyes. “Boarded the next ship and set sail for France, thinking you could … What? Did you think you would just show up, pick me up, and take me back home?”

He winced. “It's nice to know you can still do that.” 

“What?” 

“Say exactly what I'm thinking before-”

“Don't.” Her tone was hard but her eyes were wet. 

“I'm sorry.” 

“Yeah, well, that's too little too late.”

“It doesn't have to be.” He swallowed. “Not if you don't want it to be.” 

She stared at him in silence. Her eyes were wide open and glistening. She snapped her mouth shut and laced her fingers on the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned white, clashing with the yellow gold band and the huge chunk of diamond that peeked out between her clenched fingers.

“And then what?” she asked.

He didn't know. He hadn't thought about it. All he had thought about was the leash that had yanked him across the country, onto a cargo ship, and straight to her side the moment she had said that she missed him. Now it seemed obvious he should have brought something more to the table than that. Ryan ducked his head under her hard stare. 

“What do you want, Ryan?” She sat up straighter. “Do you want me to drop everything and just come with you? For what? A maybe? To give it a go? See where it takes us?” She shook her head and rose from the table. “I'm not going to do this Ryan. I'm done giving maybe a go.” 

When she looked away and picked up her purse, Ryan felt the leash start to break. He was on his feet before he realized he'd moved. 

“Taylor, wait. Please.” 

“I can't.” She snapped. “I've waited for years. I've waited for the prince on the white steed, and I thought it could be you, but it's time to stop waiting. Fairy tales don't come true. Love does not conquer everything, and having Paris means nothing more than a consolation price.” 

She stopped abruptly and took a step back, looking away as if she'd said too much. 

“It was time to grow up, so I did. I suggest you do the same.” she looked around. “Now, I have to go. Jaques is having a garden party tonight and I have to make sure the caterers didn't ruin everything.” 

Ryan stared at her in disbelief. This was not supposed to be happening. He had come all this way to win her back. Instead, she was walking away from him with a look that broke his fucking heart. 

“It was nice to see you, Ryan. Enjoy your time in Paris.”


	9. The Journey (Part 2)

If anyone asked him what he was doing here, Ryan couldn't tell. It was a good thing that French events were ridiculously easy to crash. He had had no more trouble walking into this garden party than he had had walking into the church during the wedding. Ryan pulled on the collar of his shirt and looked around the assembly with a scowl. He could almost hear Seth lean over and mutter 'Welcome to the dark side' in his ear. 

Taking a deep breath, he launched himself into the fray. He barely paid attention to his surroundings, looking for Taylor among the crowd. That turned out to be a mistake when someone grabbed him by the elbow. Ryan twisted around, mouth open for an excuse.

“Mon dieux, un American. Êtes-vous le … Oh, pardonnez moi. Naturellement vous ne parlez pas français.” Her accent was as thick as her perfume when she continued in English. “Are you the cousin from America? I don't know how you do it. I could just never live there. The terrible food!” 

Ryan made an uncomfortable shrugging motion and weaseled out of her grip, ducking away as quickly as he could, only to be stopped by another woman with too much interest in holding him up and holding on to his arm. 

“Do you like America? I mean, all that gun violence, isn't it depressing?”

Navigating through the party turned into running the gauntlet as he was held up and grabbed by every bored married woman who was out of her husband's line of sight and looking to get her hands on him. 

“Did I hear you were from Canada?”

“Yes, you did.”

Ryan left the woman behind and made a beeline for the bar. He hadn't caught a single glimpse of Taylor and he'd been here for at least twenty minutes. 

“Can I get a seven and seven?”

“Excuze moi?” 

“Never mind, whiskey sour?”

“Ah, bon monsieur.”

Ryan turned away from the bar to take another look around the party. The fancy affair was like any of the ones back in Newport Beach: same lame decor, same bland food, same boring live band, same glamorous crowd. 

It was hard to believe his eyes when he finally saw her. As part of a group of French Newpsies, she was hardly recognizable. The only difference between her and the other desperate housewives was that she held her glass of champagne less like a weapon and more like a safety handle. The pain in her eyes and any possible expression on her face were masked by a thick layer of expensive makeup. Her laughter rang out loud and false from among the circle of women. 

Ryan looked around, trying to figure out who and where that supposed husband of hers was. There were plenty of dark haired Frenchmen at this party, but none of them seemed to be paying any particular attention to Taylor or the women who surrounded her. 

“This is ridiculous.” 

Ryan shook his head and downed his whiskey sour in a few large gulps. He set the glass down with a loud clunk, cut a bee line through the crowd, and grabbed Taylor's wrist to pull her from the ring of cackling women. 

“Excuse us, ladies.” 

Taylor gasped as he pulled her a few steps away into a quiet corner, but she regained her momentum quickly and twisted her arm out of his grip.

“Ryan, what are you doing here?”

This time, he had an answer ready. It didn't matter what had happened before or what would happen later. What mattered was that he couldn't stand by and watch Taylor kill herself, trying to fit into a world of brainless society wives and ignorant high rollers. 

“I'm breaking you out of this place.” 

“This isn't a prison, Ryan. It's a garden party, and one that I organized, I might add.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, standing tall with her chin jutted out and her shoulders squared. 

Ryan smirked. “The only difference is the color scheme. Come on, you don't want to be here.” 

“Ryan, what’s gotten into you?” Her arms fell to her side as she stared at him agape. “Are you insane?” 

Was he? He didn't think so. Watching her with those women, the only thing that struck him as insane was that she had managed to keep her cool and look as if she didn't want to scream at the top of her lungs while they harangued her with their inane chatter. 

This wasn't where Taylor belonged. She deserved so much better than this. She was so much better than this. If she was arranging garden parties, the guests should at least be at her level. Taylor was someone who could argue passionately about art, culture, history, and politics in no less than three languages. She had no business standing around a bunch of trophy wives relegated to conversations about beauty regimes and vicious gossip. 

“No, actually,” he said, “I think I just snapped out of it. And you will too once you get away from all this.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” 

She crossed her arms again and averted her gaze, but the corners of her lips pulled down and her brows furrowed when her eyes fell onto the cackling group of women who still busied themselves with gossip less than twenty feet away.

“Taylor, you have to stop. This isn’t you. Come on, let’s go home.” 

She opened her mouth, but before she could respond, they were interrupted by somebody else. 

“Excuse me, sir. Kindly step away from my wife.” 

Ryan clenched his hands into fists, but he forced himself to stand very still and only turn his head. That way, he wouldn't be able to whirl around swinging. It wouldn't do him or his argument any favors if he resorted to violence. 

“I don’t think so,” he said very calmly. “We're in the middle of a conversation.”

Ryan barely saw the guy in front of him. It was just a dark haired dude in a suit who hadn't bothered to pay attention to his wife until another man got near her, and, now that he felt his male ego was threatened, he was trying to display a show of strength. It was laughable. 

The guy blustered like an animal as he pulled himself to his full height, a couple inches taller than Ryan, and straightened the lapels of his suit with an exaggerated tug. 

“Sir, if you don’t step away from my wife, I’m going to have to call the police and…” 

“And what?” Ryan snorted. “Tell them that she was having a conversation with her American lover and decided to leave you in the middle of your party? Go ahead.”

“Ryan!” 

“Taylor, please.” 

Ryan stopped and looked at her with every ounce of the exasperation and utter devotion he felt for her. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he should have come back for her after the garden party, but now that he was here, he would not back down until he at least got Taylor to realize that she deserved better than this. 

“I think my wife has made it clear that she has no interest in your advances.” 

“Will you stop calling her that?” Ryan whirled around with a snarl. “She has a name.” 

It was almost as if this guy didn't think of her as anything other than a pretty trophy, another object in his possession. My house, my car, my wife. Screw him. Taylor Townsend was no one's possession.

“You know what?” Ryan shook his head. “You’re probably right, because this?” He pointed at the dress and hair style that made Taylor look twenty years older than she was. “The dress? The hair? Those women? That might be your idea of a perfect little wife.” He frowned at Taylor's tense expression under all the heavy makeup. “But it sure as hell isn’t Taylor Townsend.” 

“I think I know my own wife better than some random scoundrel.” 

Ryan ignored the scoff and the insult, but he couldn't ignore the challenge.

“I bet you don’t. I bet you don’t know anything about her.” 

“You are certain to lose that bet.” 

“Oh, really? What’s her favorite bed-time movie?” 

“Hah, too easy. Le Mepris.” 

Ryan imitated the grating sound of a buzzer. “Wrong.” 

“This is ridiculous. I should know. I fall asleep to it every time we watch.”

“Yeah? But I bet she stays up. I bet after you fall asleep she sneaks out to watch that Japanese Anime movie with the flying decapitated heads and the ...” It had been so long he almost didn't remember the name of the movie. Almost. “Bloodbath 4.”

“I don't think s-”

“He's right.” 

Ryan's head snapped around to look at Taylor. She was looking at her so called husband with a guilty expression, licking her lips. 

“He's right,” she said again. 

Then her eyes landed on Ryan with the same hardness they had reflected at the cafe. 

“But that doesn't mean I'm just going to fall into your arms, Ryan. I told you, I am done waiting for the fairy tale prince.” 

Ryan swallowed. He lowered his head and stared at the pointy tips of her high heeled shoes. He felt like the world's biggest failure for screwing up the most important relationship of his life. 

“I know, and that's my fault.” He sighed. “I screwed up. I'm sorry.” 

Ryan ignored the other guy, her husband, as the man loudly cleared his throat. 

“I think you've said quite en-”

“Jacques, give us a minute please.” Taylor didn't look away from Ryan as she spoke. 

“Cherie, certainement, tu-”

“Jacques, please.” 

They were standing in the middle of a garden party, but from the moment the presence of Jacques Bagot's heated glare disappeared, they might as well have been the only two people left on earth. 

“I really am sorry,” Ryan said. “I regretted that email the moment I hit send.” 

“Ryan, please.” She held up her hand. Her fingers were trembling. 

“No, hear me out.” 

It was obvious that he wasn't taking her anywhere. He had never stood any hope of that, and he should have known better. He shouldn't have come here to take her home in the first place. Who was he to tell her what to do? All he could do was be honest and tell her what he should have told her from the get go. 

“I think you deserve better than this. You don't have to come with me. You don't even have to leave Paris but, please, don't stay like this. You're so much smarter, and better, and it's obvious you're not happy, and that's all I want for you. I want you to be happy. Okay?” 

He had no idea what the look on her face meant. He had so much more to say, but he was out of words to say it. He'd never been good at expressing stuff, especially not stuff to do with feelings. He just hoped that she understood somehow what he was trying to say. 

“I'm really sorry.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “I'm gonna go now.” 

Ryan didn't look back as he headed towards the exit. He should have figured out what to say before he came here. He shook his head and kept his chin down. There was no sense in hanging around. If Seth had been here, maybe he would have been better prepared. His brother never seemed to have a problem with words. Heck, his favorite band did a better job explaining their feelings in two-minute songs. 

The front man of the live band rattled off something in French to which the guests responded with polite disinterest. Then they set their instruments aside and hopped off the stage a few feet ahead on Ryan's path. 

Ryan stopped in his tracks. He looked at the empty stage, then at the band lingering around a separate buffet table behind the stage. He pulled one hand out of his pocket and scratched his nose, watching the guys. He caught a glimpse of a Foreigner t-shirt under the drummer's suit jacket. A crazy idea started to take shape in his mind. It wouldn't go away. There was nothing left to lose. 

Ryan jogged up to the band members behind the stage. 

“Sorry, do any of you speak English?”

The drummer looked up from his plate full of fancy finger food with raised brows.

~!~  
Ryan climbed onto the stage with the rest of the band, nervously licking his lips. He watched everyone get into place and took his spot behind the center microphone. His throat was dry, his heart was pounding, and he was seriously regretting his impulsive idea, but there was no going back now. 

He glanced over the crowd. They were as disinterested as before. The lead singer and guitarist jerked his chin in a silent question and Ryan quickly spoke into the microphone.

“Taylor?” 

There was silence. He nodded at the lead guitarist. The drummer tapped his sticks three times. The recognizable opening chords of the song filled the air as Ryan's fingers tapped along on the invisible keyboard on his thigh. Then he nodded his head in time with the bass and drum, opened his mouth and let Journey do the talking. His singing voice wasn't very good, but it was steady and he hit the notes. That was all anyone could ask for. 

He didn't look for her as he sang about standing worlds apart with broken hearts. He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him as he cried out his appeal that someday love would find her and break the chains that bound her. He didn't flinch, didn't pause, didn't miss a beat when he sang, “I still love you.” 

He sang about troubled times, confusion and pain. He sang without ever looking up to see if she was there. He knew she was. He believed she was listening, and his lucky stars let him carry on without being dragged off the stage mid-verse. 

Ryan sang the entire ballad without missing a beat. He shouted his love for the woman he might never see again after today. He had to let her know, just once. No more vague poems, no more promises of maybe. He just wanted her to know the truth. He proclaimed his love over and over until the final chords of the song faded into silence.

Then he stepped away from the microphone, hopped off the stage and headed for the exit. 

“Don't you dare walk away from me after that, Ryan Atwood!” 

Ryan stopped and dropped his chin to his chest. He didn't want to look over his shoulder to see the look on her face, but it didn't feel like he had a choice. He turned his head and glanced back. 

Her makeup was smudged under her eyes and she must have wiped her nose because her lipstick was smeared on one side. She was clenching her fists so tightly her knuckles were white. 

“Do you mean it?” she demanded. 

“Every word,” he said.

She nodded. 

Someone shouted something from across the lawn. The voice was getting closer. 

“Let's get out of here.” She caught up to him in three quick steps, grabbed his hand and pulled him along with her out of the iron gates into the Paris night.


	10. The Happily Ever After

They ended up in a bar. Of course, it was a fancy jazz bar because this was Taylor's home turf and she didn't set foot in seedy dumps unless she had to pull someone she cared about out of one. They had downed four shots each. Of course, there was no evidence of that because the bar tender dutifully removed the empty glasses before he provided new ones; no refills in fancy jazz bars. 

Taylor was holding her liquor just fine. From what Ryan remembered, she had at least another three shots before she ended up on top of a table, singing Disney songs. Her eyes were only a little bit glassy when she looked at him with a calculating stare. 

“You really mean it?” 

Ryan fought a smile and fondled the empty glass in his hand. He was going to need another one. 

“Yes, Taylor. I mean it.” 

“Say it again,” she demanded with her chin jutting out and her finger pointing in the general direction of his face. 

“I love you, Taylor,” he said for the fifth time since they had set foot in this bar.

“See, was that so hard?” She scrunched her face into a disgruntled frown and then turned away from him. “Barman, la même, s'il vous plait.” She twirled her finger in the air above their shot glasses.

“You have no idea,” he said with a grin that felt strangely lopsided on his face. “But it's getting easier.”

The barkeeper exchanged their empty glasses with two that were filled exactly two millimeters below the rim, setting them down so primly that not a drop spilled onto the pristine counter. 

Taylor snatched hers up and downed it in one gulp. Ryan drank his more slowly and watched as she heaved a sigh and frowned sternly at the empty spot in front of her, which meant that she was berating herself behind those wrinkled brows and narrowed eyes. 

“Taylor,” he said her name in the sing-song way he used when he wanted to get a rise out of her. 

“You realize, I'm going to be a twice-divorced whore by the time this is over.” She pouted. “I'm not just damaged goods; I'm scorched earth!” She flapped her arms in the air, dropped them down on the counter and buried her face in them. 

Ryan chuckled. “I'll still marry you.” 

His eyes widened before hers did when he realized what he had just said. He couldn't believe he'd just said that. That didn't count as a real proposal, right? He gulped down the panic in his throat, threw a desperate glance at the barkeeper, and pointed to his glass.

“Bar man, meme, please!” 

Taylor looked at him through narrowed eyes. Ryan could see the shutters slam shut in his face as she brought up her walls. 

“Don't worry,” she said, “I won't hold you to it.” 

Her tone did that wobbly thing it did when she was really hurt and pretending she wasn't. Ryan knew he had about a second to pull this one out of the fire. 

“No, hang on. Stay with me.” 

He placed his hand on her wrist and took a deep breath. Luckily, a fresh glass of liquid courage was placed in front of him just at that moment. He couldn't think about this one too hard or he'd mess it all up again. Ryan picked up the glass and chugged it down in one quick gulp. He sucked in a breath through his nose and suppressed a burp. This was all or nothing, and this time there wasn't a perfectly suited Journey song to get it done. He licked his lips. 

Taylor was staring at him with suspicion in her eyes and the proverbial shutters were maybe a half an inch cracked open. On the upside, she had not pulled out her arm from under his hand.

He screwed up his courage and opened his mouth with only half an idea of what was going to come out when he started speaking. 

“Hold me to it,” he said. 

The shutters flung open and her eyes became huge and glassy as those pretty lips parted just a little bit. She looked like he had flicked her forehead. 

“Ryan,” she breathed his name.

“But not like this.” He made a vague motion with his arm around the bar. Then he grabbed her hands. “Not right now. Let me get this right, yeah? With the ring and the flowers and the restaurant and all that ...” He made a face. “I'll probably have to call Summer for details.” 

“That's okay,” Taylor said breathlessly, her head bobbing as she nodded along. 

Her hands were really warm and really pretty. She was still wearing the big diamond ring and wedding band. He didn't like it. 

“It's not gonna be that big,” he said. 

Taylor pulled her hands back faster than when they would play slap jack. She grabbed the rings and twisted and yanked until they came off her finger. Then she carefully wrapped them into a napkin and put them into her purse. 

Ryan frowned. 

“In case Jacques wants them back,” she explained with a shrug. 

“Ah,” said Ryan. 

He smiled. It was just so Taylor. He had no idea how he had managed to live without her for so long. He was not going to make that mistake again. If he had to move to Paris to stay with her, he'd make the move and never look back. 

“Damn,” he said, “I do love you.” 

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“So,” she said, drawing out the single syllable with pursed lips. “Now, what?” 

He shook his head and shrugged. “I don't know.” 

She bit her lip. “How long are you here for work?” 

“Yeah, about that.” He winced and grimaced with a grin.

Ryan told her about his reaction to her call, and his trip on the boat, and the fact that he had no arrangements for a trip back to the US, and even less money to pay for one. 

“So.” She kept the syllable short this time. “You're stuck in Paris?”

“Yep.” 

“Wonderful!” There was a decidedly evil glint in her eyes when she turned to the barkeeper with a beaming smile. “Barman?” 

Ryan knew she was plotting. She had this expression on her face that was hard to describe but really easy to recognize once you knew her. He had no idea what her plans entailed, but he was certain they included at least a dozen minute details no normal human being would ever think of, especially after downing five, or was it six? Seven? Definitely not after whatever number of shots of tequila they had had. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Ryan said as he raised his however-manyeth shot. 

She radiated a beatific smile in his direction and bounced once before she smoothed her hands over the bar and started to speak. 

“First, I'm going to settle our tab here. Then I'm going to take you to the nearest acceptable hotel – The Pullman, not the Four Seasons, because The Pullman has the better view of the Eiffel Tower and the Four Seasons is vastly overrated. Then we are going to adulterate as if it is our last night on earth – at least twice, preferably half a dozen times – until breakfast tomorrow morning. We'll have breakfast at this charming little patisserie on the Left Bank – brunch is more of a thing here, but you know me, sleeping more than four hours is unproductive, and I wouldn't want to have to wait until 11 to eat; it's bad for your blood sugar. Then we're going to--”

“Taylor, breathe.” 

“Huh?” 

Ryan chuckled. “Somewhere in that plan, am I going to have time to call home?” 

“Oh, of course.” She blinked rapidly as she shook her head. “Accounting for the nine hour time difference, I had planned to call the Cohens after our visit to the Louvre and before dinner at La Bonne Excuse tomorrow.” She glanced at her delicate gold wrist watch. “Alternately, we could call them when we get to the hotel and before we start adulterating if we leave now.” 

Ryan cringed, thinking about having that conversation with his family and then trying to get into a romantic mood. 

“Tomorrow's fine,” he said. “After the Louvre?”

“Yes, after the Louvre and before dinner.” 

Ryan had the distinct feeling that he would never have to make another plan in his life if he didn't want to. Strangely, that feeling didn't provoke any anxiety in him at all. It felt good to have whirlwind Taylor back in his life. He had missed this. This was the furthest thing from just getting on with life, sleepwalking through stable, solitary days, and it was a thousand times better. 

She was radiant, and gorgeous, and wicked smart, and way too good for him. Despite all that, she was sitting on the edge of her bar stool, looking at him as if she had finally won first place at a competition she'd been losing for years.

He smiled. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” she said hopefully. 

“Yeah.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Now, about the adulterating, do you have any more detailed plans?” 

Ryan grinned as she swayed closer to him and her eyes half closed before she forced them open wide and whipped her head around toward the bar keeper.

“Check please!” 

She turned her eyes back on him and her gaze was nothing less than smoldering. Placing her hand on the side of his neck, she leaned very, very close. Her lips were maybe a half an inch away from his mouth when she veered off. Her warm breath tickled his ear and made him break out in goosebumps even before she started to speak. 

“I have many, many plans,” she practically purred. “All the things I said I didn't do in that book?” She flicked out the tip of her tongue, barely touching the shell of his ear. “I'm going to do to you.” 

A shiver ran down Ryan's spine and he closed his eyes. He may have groaned. He definitely was getting hard inside his pants. 

“Bar man, the check!” 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks. I hope you enjoyed the story. Drop me a note or hit the Kudos button if you liked it. In any event, thank you for reading.


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